Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5)

by H. Y. Hanna

  So did that mean that Charlie Foxton hadn’t been the intended victim after all?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was a wonderful feeling to be able to walk—okay, hobble—into my tearoom the next morning and get back into the thick of things. My ankle felt so much better that I was able to put a bit of weight on it and I was down to using just one crutch. Although I knew I still couldn’t do active waitressing duty, I had convinced Cassie that I would be useful behind the counter—in particular, ringing up all the bills for customers who had finished and were leaving.

  As the “morning tea” rush started and customers began filling the tables, I stood behind the counter and looked happily around: the spring sunshine streaming in through the thick glass of the mullioned windows, gleaming on the silver cutlery and fine china teapots at the tables; a young couple laughing as their two-year-old bit into a slice of Victoria sponge cake and got jam all over her chin; two elderly ladies—village residents by the look of it—huddled together over their tea and scones, busily sharing some gossip; a group of American tourists oohing and aahing as Cassie laid out a selection of cakes on their table; another group of tourists eagerly posing for photos with the tearoom’s inglenook fireplace and chattering away excitedly in Japanese… I gave a sigh of contentment. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed my little kingdom.

  The Old Biddies had come in to help as usual, although Mabel looked slightly miffed at having been “dethroned” as queen of the tearoom. I soothed her ruffled feathers, however, by sharing all the new things I’d learned about the murder case since that fateful Krav Maga class three nights ago.

  “Hmm… this Pete Morrow—he sounds exactly like the type of man to be a murderer,” declared Mabel. “Yes, I remember seeing him at the club. Short stocky fellow, with a swarthy complexion—isn’t that right, dear? Yes, yes, swarthy men can’t be trusted. They always turn out to be the bad ones in books. And he has such thick eyebrows too,” she added, as if this decided the case.

  I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t a novel. You can’t take against a man just because of the way he looks!”

  “But villains are always swarthy,” insisted Glenda. “Although I must say, I do like a swarthy man myself. There is something so attractive about hairy men, don’t you think?”

  “I… er…”

  To my relief, Florence interrupted: “But he must be the villain! I’m sure Swarthy Pete killed Damian.”

  “He certainly has no alibi for the time of Damian’s murder,” I agreed. “And he was definitely in the vicinity just a few hours before.”

  “Oh, you mean when you saw him with Damian on the street, dear?”

  “Yeah, I thought I saw them talking to each other on the corner just outside Haverton College the night Damian was strangled. And I spoke to Devlin briefly this morning before coming in to work—he told me he questioned Pete Morrow yesterday afternoon and the man confirmed that it was him talking to Damian on the street.”

  Mabel pounced on me. “Well, there you have it! Isn’t that an admission of guilt?”

  “Not really. Pete said that it was Damian who stopped him in the street—Damian recognised the hoodie—and asked about the Krav Maga Club because he was anxious to learn some self-defence.”

  “Ooh, it sounds like Damian was worried for his own safety,” said Glenda.

  I glanced at her. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it like that… but you’re right. Maybe Damian had some inkling that he was in danger, or perhaps he had even been threatened.”

  “But by whom? It can’t have been Swarthy Pete because then Damian wouldn’t have approached him for help—”

  “Unless he didn’t realise the threat came from Swarthy Pe—” I caught myself and scowled at the Old Biddies. “Er… I mean, from Pete Morrow. The threats could have been anonymous.”

  “But why would anyone threaten Damian anyway?” asked Florence.

  “He knew something about Charlie’s murder,” said Mabel emphatically. “Maybe he saw something on May morning which could incriminate the killer—so he had to be silenced.”

  “So… you mean it was Swarthy Pete who killed Charlie as well?” asked Ethel.

  I frowned. “Well, right now, he does look like the top suspect. There are a lot of things adding up against him.” I held up my fingers and counted them off. “One: he had a strong motive for wanting revenge after Charlie humiliated him at the Krav Maga Club. Two: he was seen running away from the bridge on May morning—and he admitted to Devlin that he was there; he said he had gone to watch the celebrations, but after the choir finished singing, he suddenly needed the toilet, which was why he ran off (although that seems a bit of a lame excuse to me). Three: he works as a butcher in the Covered Market, so he would have a good idea of where to stab someone to cause a fatal injury, and he would also be used to handling metal meat skewers. Four: he was one of the last people seen with Damian just before the latter was killed and he doesn’t have an alibi for the time of that murder. Oh! And… and…” I added excitedly, holding up the last finger. “Five: he’s Russian—his real name is Morozov—and that phrase that the Aussie backpacker overheard, which was possibly the murderer crying out just after stabbing Charlie, was in Russian.”

  The Old Biddies were watching me, goggle-eyed.

  “But… he’s the murderer then!” cried Glenda. “Why haven’t the police arrested him?”

  “A lot of that is circumstantial. It wouldn’t stand up in court. Devlin says he needs more concrete evidence. Also, Pete Morrow isn’t the only suspect. We mustn’t forget Tanya Koskov. She had motives for killing both Charlie and Damian—although I admit, they’re weaker. She certainly had the best opportunity to stab Charlie, plus she’s a medical student, so she would know where and how to inflict a lethal wound. And she had easy access to the murder weapon.”

  “But didn’t you say, dear, that she has an alibi for Damian’s murder?”

  “Well… she says she was in the J.C.R. the whole time, but the only person who can vouch for that is Mikhail Petrovsky, and I wouldn’t put it past him to lie for her. He’s so patriotic and loyal to his fellow countrymen—I think he would see it as his duty to ‘protect’ another Russian from suspicion. In fact, I think he would do it just to spite the British police, if nothing else!”

  “What about Miriam Hopkins?” asked Mabel suddenly. “Are the police still considering her a suspect as well?”

  “Oh, no, there’s some good news there,” I said, smiling. “Devlin questioned Miriam again to ask her about the CCTV footage, which showed that she had been near Magdalen Bridge on May morning, when she had told the police that she hadn’t. And she admitted that she had lied previously.”

  Ethel gasped. “Why did she lie?”

  “It was because of her son. He contacted her the night before, saying he needed money—and asking her to meet him by Magdalen Bridge. Apparently he’s in a bit of trouble and on the run from the police himself, so he wanted to meet in a busy, public place where he could disappear easily in the crowd. And he made her promise that she wouldn’t tell anyone she had been to meet him, especially not the police. Spun her some story that he was being persecuted unfairly and that he just needed more time to prove his innocence.” I rolled my eyes. “So Miriam lied to protect him.”

  “Do the police believe her?”

  “Devlin says he does. He’s checked up on the son—Jeremy Hopkins—and the story fits. Jeremy is wanted for fraud and theft, and escaped arrest a couple of days ago. They think he might have gone across on the ferry to Ireland now, but they’ve alerted the Garda—the Irish Police—and Devlin is sure they’ll catch him soon. So it seems that the only thing Miriam was guilty of was a mother’s soft heart.”

  Mabel made a clucking sound with her tongue. “It’s always the way. Mothers can never see the faults in their own children.”

  Nor fathers, I thought, considering the numerous times Vladimir Koskov had bailed his daughter out of trouble. Still, if Tanya was guilty o
f murder—possibly double murder—I didn’t think Koskov would be able to protect her this time…

  ***

  It was a busy day and, despite spending most of it perched on a stool behind the counter, I was exhausted by the time the end rolled around. Still, I decided it would be good to stay a bit later and catch up on some paperwork and accounting. Dora and Cassie left just before six, but the Old Biddies seemed happy to linger, helping themselves to leftovers from the kitchen and settling down to a late “tea”—or perhaps early supper—at one of the tables. They were just making a fresh pot and asking me as I’d like a cup when the front door of the tearoom opened with a tinkle of bells.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed—” I started to say, then I paused in surprise as I saw who was standing in the doorway.

  It was Tanya Koskov.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Hello, Tanya,” I said warily, remembering the violent way she had pushed me the last time I saw her.

  The Russian girl hesitated in the doorway, fiddling with the zipper of her Gucci handbag, and I noticed that she didn’t seem her usual haughty, sardonic self. Instead, she looked uneasy and embarrassed.

  “I asked Detective O’Connor where to find you,” she said at last. “He told me this address.”

  “Oh. Um… yes?”

  She glanced at the Old Biddies, who were regarding her with avid curiosity. I followed her gaze, then said, “Do you want to come into the kitchen? We can talk in there.”

  She nodded and followed me inside. I knew the Old Biddies would probably be glued to the door, eavesdropping, but at least this gave the illusion of privacy. Gesturing to a chair by the big wooden table in the centre of the room, I invited Tanya to sit down.

  She shook her head and stood stiffly. The silence stretched between us. Then she made an awkward movement. “I…I come to apologise,” she muttered.

  “To apologise?” I stared at her. This was the last thing I expected.

  “For way I treated you yesterday,” she rushed on. “I should not push you like that or… or call you daughter of bitch. I was angry… but… it was wrong thing to do. I am sorry. I hope… I hope you are not hurt.” She looked down again quickly.

  I was touched in spite of myself. It had obviously cost Tanya a lot of pride to come here today and apologise to me. I wondered if perhaps it was the first time she had ever apologised for her behaviour in her life. I felt myself softening towards her.

  “Thanks… It’s all right—I wasn’t really hurt.” I paused, then added, “It was very nice of you to make a special trip here to apologise. I appreciate it.”

  She scowled and kept her head down, twisting the zipper some more. “I know when I am wrong. I am not afraid to admit it.”

  I hesitated, then decided to seize the chance. “Tanya… can I ask you something?”

  “What?” She looked back up at me.

  “It’s about Damian’s murder.” I looked her straight in the eye. “Yesterday, when Inspector O’Connor was asking about your movements between ten and midnight, you said you were in the J.C.R. the whole time.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “That’s not true, though, is it? I saw your face when Mikhail spoke up and said that he could vouch for you being there the whole time. He was covering for you, wasn’t he?”

  For a moment, Tanya looked as if she wouldn’t reply, then she gave a lazy shrug and said, “And if he was?”

  “So he was lying!” I exclaimed. “What was the truth, Tanya? Where were you really?”

  She gave an impatient sigh. “I was in J.C.R. like I say. But I left earlier—maybe around 11:40 p.m. What does it matter?”

  “It matters because it makes all the difference in a murder investigation! Where did you go?”

  She raised her chin. “I went for walk.”

  “Where?”

  She shrugged. “Just around college. I want fresh air before I go back to my room.”

  “Did you meet anyone? Anyone see you?”

  “No, it was very late and it was dark,” she said irritably. “Nobody was there.”

  “So no one could confirm your story—that you were out walking—as opposed to going to Damian’s room? This means there’s about twenty minutes unaccounted for… enough time for you to have committed the murder.”

  Her eyes flashed furiously and a wave of red colour swept over her face. For a moment, I thought she was going to strike me again. I took a hasty step backwards. The action seemed to recall Tanya to herself and she took a deep breath. Then she gave me a disdainful look.

  “It is the truth. I go for walk. I did not go to Damian’s room. I don’t need anybody to confirm this. I know I am innocent.”

  “If that’s the case, why did you lie to the police? Why claim that you were in the J.C.R. the whole time?”

  “I did not lie,” she snapped. “It is Mikhail who said that. I simply let him speak for me.”

  “Well, you certainly didn’t speak up to correct him.”

  She looked at me like I was an imbecile. “Of course I do not correct him. I know I did not kill Damian. So it is not important if I leave J.C.R. early or not. Otherwise, police will think just like you—they will ask me where I go and who saw me during that twenty minutes—and it is all unnecessary. It is wasting police time.”

  “It’s not wasting police time—it’s telling them the truth,” I said in exasperation. “Giving the police the wrong information could seriously affect their investigation. You’ve got to tell Devlin—Inspector O’Connor, I mean, about this. You’ve got to revise your statement.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I will call him and tell him later.” She gave me a searching look. “Why you care so much? Why are you so keen to help police?”

  “Why aren’t you?” I retorted. “Your boyfriend was murdered. I would have thought that you’d want to bring his killer to justice.”

  Tanya blinked and, for a moment, I saw the flash of pain in her beautiful grey eyes. Then the cold mask came back down over her face. “This is not about Charlie. This is about Damian—and for him, I feel nothing.”

  “But the murders are connected!” I insisted. “Damian must have been killed by the same person who murdered Charlie. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. Come on, Tanya… you knew them both very well. You spent so much time together. Can’t you think of any reason why they would both have been killed? Was there something that they were involved in together?”

  She shook her head slowly, for once seeming to make the effort to consider my question seriously. “No, there is nothing,” she said at last. “Yes, they do many things together; the parties, the—how you say—the pranks, but nothing to do with crime.”

  “And what about the few days before May morning—can you remember anything special happening in those days? I know the police have already asked you this,” I said quickly as I saw her make an impatient movement. “But you’ve had more time to think. Has anything new occurred to you? Anything strange that might have happened?”

  “No, nothing. We go to lectures… and practical classes in laboratories… and tutorials…”

  “Yes, and what about the evenings? May Day was on Friday. What did you do on the Thursday evening before? I remember Damian mentioning a party in your room—”

  “Yes, Charlie and me—we decided to have party together. But not in his room—in my room. I had idea for fancy dress party,” she said with a hint of a smile as the memory came back to her. “Charlie liked this very much. He wanted to be Sinbad the Sailor. Me, I thought I would like to be Xena Warrior Princess.”

  “Yes, I remember. That was the reason you borrowed the barbecue skewer from Miriam, right? But then you didn’t use it?”

  “Yes. I wanted Arabian sword to go with Xena costume but I could not find good one in costume shop. Then Charlie told me Miriam has collection of Arabic things and he will ask her. She said yes, she has barbecue skewer which looks like Arabian sword. She brought to college for me to borrow. But then
I changed my mind—I decided to dress like genie instead so I don’t need sword. So I did not use skewer. I left it in Charlie’s sitting room to return to Miriam.”

  “And who else knew about this skewer? I mean, aside from you and Charlie… and Damian, I suppose, because he shared Charlie’s room.”

  Tanya shrugged. “Many people. Charlie had many, many friends. They were always coming to his room—the door is never locked. Everybody was there on Thursday, before the party. Charlie bought many things from costume shop for anybody to use, and many things for the party also. Drinks and food and fun things for party.”

  I remembered Damian mentioning Charlie’s generous tendencies. It sounded like it was open house and I could just imagine what it must have been like, with party supplies and costume props scattered everywhere, balloons, packs of beer, plastic glasses, bottles of wine… Any number of people could have been in the boys’ room that Thursday and nicked the skewer without anyone noticing in the general chaos. I sighed. This was looking like a dead end. Still, I couldn’t resist trying one last time:

  “And are you sure you don’t remember anyone acting strangely at the party?”

  Tanya threw her hands up. “How do you expect me to remember? It is so many people! Here—” She reached into her handbag and pulled out an expensive smartphone in a gold case. She swiped the screen, bringing up her photo gallery, and shoved it in front of me. “You can see yourself. Look—see how many people at party!”

  I took the phone and scrolled through the photos. She was right—it looked like a typical raucous student party, the room packed to bursting and everyone having a great time. People posing in their costumes. Couples kissing for the camera. Friends pulling faces at each other. Every picture showed flushed faces and slightly drunk grins. I saw a picture of Damian and Charlie, their arms around each other’s shoulders, leering at the camera. They were dressed in identical Sinbad outfits, except that Charlie was wearing a satin turban on his head, which went well with his costume, whereas Damian was wearing a rainbow-coloured knitted beanie cap, which looked slightly ridiculous.