by H. Y. Hanna
“Mother!” I said through clenched teeth. “Don’t start jumping to conclusions! I’m not marrying Lincoln Green!”
“Why ever not, dear?”
I felt like banging my head against the wall. “Well, for one thing, I don’t even know him that well yet. It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”
“But you’ve been out with him a few times, haven’t you?”
“Only as friends,” I stressed. “I’ve made it very clear to him that those were not romantic dates.”
My mother waved this away. “And you’re going out again with him tomorrow night,” she added with some satisfaction.
I looked at her warily. How had she found out about that?
“It’s nothing. Lincoln was given some tickets for a concert at the Sheldonian and asked if I’d like to go along.”
My mother beamed. “Well, make sure you look your best, darling. In fact, I saw this wonderful headscarf online—shall I get it for you? They do same-day delivery.”
I looked at her in alarm. “No thanks, Mother.” Hurriedly, I changed the subject. “Did you give Muesli her dinner?”
My mother’s face softened slightly. “Yes, and I must say, that little cat is extremely naughty. She darted past my legs and ran downstairs before I could stop her.”
I looked quickly around the living room. “Did you get her back?”
“Yes, yes, I managed to entice her back into your room with some tuna.” My mother sighed. “I do feel a bit sorry for her—poor little thing—cooped up in your bedroom all day.”
“Yeah, well, you know she’s used to having the run of the house in her previous home.” I looked at my mother hopefully. “Maybe we could try letting her out…?”
“But wouldn’t she scratch the furniture?”
I looked around the living room and sighed. My mother was right. Muesli would make mincemeat of the cream silk damask covers on the sofa suite, not to mention the matching curtains. I wouldn’t have cared myself, but living as I was back in my parents’ house, I didn’t feel that it was fair to them. It had been one of the things I had promised my mother when I told her I was adopting Muesli—that the cat wouldn’t cause any trouble.
And it would only be for a little while longer, I told myself. Hopefully, if business continued to go well at the tearoom, I would soon be able to afford a place of my own and then Muesli could shred whatever she pleased…
Five minutes later, the little tabby cat herself came running up to greet me as I entered my bedroom. Her tail was straight up like a flagpole and she vibrated the end of it in greeting as she rubbed herself against my legs. I had to admit, despite never having been a cat person, I was beginning to enjoy the feline welcome I received every time I returned.
“Hiya, Muesli,” I said, reaching down to rub her chin.
She purred like a little engine and butted her head against my shins. I scooped her up and cuddled her close, walking over to look out the window. My bedroom overlooked the rear of the house, with a view of our own garden and part of the Walthams’ property, which was the last one on the street corner and twice the size of ours. I could see light spilling out of the rear windows next door.
I wondered if Devlin might have finished questioning Mrs Walton by now, then I thought of the party again. Could it really only have been a few hours ago? And Sarah—so brash and alive then. It seemed incredible to think that she was dead and even more incredible to think that it could have been murder.
CHAPTER SIX
I had a restless night, tossing and turning, plagued by dreams of pink cocktails and strange paintings and then finally a large teapot landing on my chest… its weight suffocating me… and it was rumbling like an engine…
Huh?
I awoke with a start and found myself staring into a pair of green eyes above a little pink nose in a whiskered face.
“Muesli…” I mumbled. “Get off my chest…”
“Meorrw!” she said.
For such a small cat, she seemed to weigh a ton. I pushed her off and sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. From the darkness showing through the gap between my curtains, I knew it must have still been very early. Early enough that my alarm hadn’t sounded yet. I groaned and lay back down, pulling the covers over me and attempting to go back to sleep. Muesli climbed over the blankets until she reached my ankles and draped herself over them. The rumbling started again. I lay there for another ten minutes, listening to her purring. Finally I gave up and sat up.
Muesli looked at me eagerly and said, “Meorrw?”
I sighed. I knew what she wanted. Although I provided her with a litter tray in the room, Muesli preferred to go outside and would hold it until she was bursting. I knew she wanted to get on with our usual morning ritual, when I took her down to the gardens for her ablutions. Oh well, I was wide awake now anyway and I might as well take advantage of the extra time. I got up, washed my face, and grabbed Muesli’s harness from my desk.
Okay, I confess—when I first got the harness, I thought I would just strap it on and Muesli would trot in front of me like a little dog. Just goes to show you how much I knew about cats. For one thing, they seemed to move backwards instead of forwards. And they didn’t really walk so much as bolt to the end of the leash, then hunch down and sit there for ten minutes, before suddenly bolting to the end of the leash in a different direction. It took about half an hour to travel five feet when you were “walking” a cat. And that was when she wasn’t rolling around trying to wriggle out of the harness. Muesli gave me a baleful look now as I slipped the straps on her.
“Sorry, Muesli, but you’ve got to accept this compromise. It’s the only way you’re going to get to go outside.”
I scooped her up and crept downstairs so as not to wake my parents, letting myself quietly out into the backyard. It was getting light now, the sky fading from indigo to pale grey. The morning air was chilly and I shivered as I set Muesli down. She began prowling along the flagstone path, sniffing the bushes along the way. I followed her absent-mindedly. We reached the large blackthorn tree that grew at the bottom of our garden, its branches spreading in all directions, some of them reaching over the wall into the Walthams’ backyard. Muesli paused at the foot of the tree and stretched up, raking her claws down the bark.
I leaned against the trunk and stared into space, my thoughts drifting. I thought of that scene in the gallery last night and grimaced, pushing the memory away and forcing my mind to pleasanter things. My tearoom. Yes. I wanted to speak to my mother about some changes to the menu—maybe cutting back on the finger sandwiches and offering more cakes. People seemed to like their sweet treats. And she had been mentioning something to me recently about a new cake recipe…
When I’d lost my chef at the tearoom recently, I hadn’t been too sure about my mother stepping into the breach. She was a wonderful cook, of course, and her baking was divine, and I needed someone full-time in the kitchen while I served the customers outside… so you could say that it was the perfect solution: I was getting a fantastic chef for free, without the hassle and expense of having to hire someone from London. I just wasn’t sure my nerves and blood pressure could stand working so closely with my mother every day. Still, so far, it seemed to be working out okay—
Something jerked in my hand, and the next moment, I realised that I was no longer holding Muesli’s leash. The little cat had scooted up the tree, yanking the leash out of my limp fingers, and was now sitting on one of the upper branches.
“Hey…!” I stretched up, trying to reach the end of the leash, which dangled just above my head.
Muesli looked down at me innocently. “Meorrw?”
“Muesli! Come back down here!”
She cocked her head and regarded me for a moment, then turned and walked very deliberately along the branch, crossing over the wall into the Walthams’ garden. She jumped down and disappeared from sight.
“Muesli!” I said in outrage.
A faint, defiant “Meorrw!” drifted over the wal
l.
Grrrr. What should I do now? It was so early, I didn’t like to ring the Walthams’ front doorbell. But I couldn’t just leave Muesli either. Aside from the fact that she would probably dig up Mrs Waltham’s prize roses, it was potentially dangerous. The Walthams’ house was the last in our street, sitting on the corner of an intersection, and if Muesli went over the wall on the other side of their garden, she would end up on the open road that ran alongside their property.
Then I pricked my ears. Someone was moving on the other side of the wall: footsteps coming down the path, then the creak of a back gate opening and the rustle of plastic. I turned hurriedly towards our own back gate and opened it just in time to see a young woman stepping out of the Walthams’ backyard. She was depositing a large black sack into the council rubbish bin in the alley that ran along the back of our houses.
“Hi.” I gave her a quick smile. “I’m from next door. I’m looking for my cat—she climbed over the wall and went into your garden—”
“A little grey tabby? With a white chest and paws? I saw her just now—she’s over by the rosebushes.”
“Do you mind if I come in to grab her?”
“Oh, sure,” said the young woman. She gave me a shy smile. “I’m Meg—I’m the Walthams’ new maid.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said absently as I stepped into the beautifully landscaped garden. I spotted Muesli immediately, sitting by a large pink rosebush at the side of the path. She saw me and tried to make a run for it, but I ran over and stepped on the end of the leash, stopping her in her tracks.
“Meorrw!” Muesli looked at me sulkily.
“That’s the end of your adventures today, you little minx,” I muttered, scooping her up.
“She’s a cute little thing,” said Meg, coming over to give Muesli a pat.
I hesitated. It seemed rude not to mention Sarah and yet it seemed weird also to suddenly bring up the subject. “Er… I’m sorry about what happened last night.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You mean about Miss Sarah? That was such a shock when I saw the papers this mornin’!”
“Did you know her well?”
The other girl shrugged. “Not really. I’ve only been workin’ here a week or so, actually.”
“Yes, I thought the Walthams had an older lady as their daily help—did she retire?”
“That’s Nell—I mean, Mrs Hicks. Yes, she’s worked for them for years but…” Meg looked embarrassed. “She was dismissed. I’m… I’m her replacement.”
“Dismissed?”
“Oh, it wasn’t anythin’ bad she’d done,” Meg said hurriedly, misinterpreting my look. “It wasn’t really Nell’s fault at all. But… well, Miss Sarah wasn’t happy with her.”
“With her work, you mean?”
“No-o…” Suddenly the girl looked uncomfortable. “I… I shouldn’t really be talkin’ about it. Sorry, I’ve got to get on with work now.”
She hustled me out the back gate and shut it firmly behind me. I stood staring at the closed gate for a moment, then turned and went back into my own garden. As I walked slowly back into the house, I mulled over what Meg had just said. Did Nell Hicks’s sudden dismissal have anything to do with Sarah’s murder? I shook my head, smiling wryly to myself. I was seeing mysteries everywhere.
I set Muesli down in the kitchen while I prepared her breakfast to a barrage of “Meorrw! Meorrw! Meorrw! Meorrw!” as she twined herself around my legs and complained about how slow I was being. I don’t know why I had bothered to try and stay quiet since she made such a racket; the whole house was probably roused by the time she finally got her breakfast.
In any case, it seemed that my mother had already been up for a while. She breezed into the kitchen just as I was putting Muesli’s bowl down. She looked immaculate in a belted wool dress with a bateau collar and with her hair in a perfect French coil, making me feel horribly conscious that I was still sporting my flannel pyjamas and serious bed hair.
Leaving Muesli to her supervision, I hurried upstairs to shower and try to make myself presentable. Half an hour later, we left the house together and headed north-east out of Oxford, towards the little village of Meadowford-on-Smythe. Like many Cotswolds villages, Meadowford was a quaint haven of thatched cottages with arched gables and winding cobbled lanes, all gathered on the banks of a picturesque river. The High Street boasted a collection of antique shops and charming boutiques, with one end overlooked by the Saxon church and the other leading down to the medieval bridge crossing the river. My pride and joy, The Little Stables Tearoom, enjoyed a prime location on the High Street and was housed in what used to be a 15th-century Tudor inn, completed with the original stable courtyard that gave the place its name.
We were slightly late due to an accident on the roads and the village was already crawling with eager tourists by the time we arrived, some already hovering hopefully outside the tearoom entrance. I was surprised to find that it was unopened. Usually Cassie would have got there by now. Perhaps she had been held up by an accident as well? I went around getting the dining room ready, opening up the drapes, checking the tables, and arranging the menus, whilst my mother went into the kitchen to put on her apron and start the day’s baking.
My previous chef used to start much earlier, of course, but I didn’t feel it fair to ask my mother to come in at the crack of dawn. So I’d figured out a good compromise: I changed the tearoom’s opening hours so that we didn’t open until 10:30 a.m., giving my mother ample time to get a lot of the fresh baking done. We didn’t usually get that much business first thing in the morning anyway—most people only started coming in for “morning tea”, which was traditionally around 10:30 to 11 a.m.
This morning, however, there were tourists beating a path to the door and they were outdone only by the Old Biddies who came in first and claimed their usual table by the windows. They gave an order for some toasted crumpets and home-made, thick-cut marmalade, a couple of Chelsea buns, and a pot of English Breakfast tea, but I knew it was all just window dressing. They were really here to gossip about last night with me.
“Have you had any more news, Gemma dear, about that poor girl who was murdered last night?”
“Why would I have had any more news?”
“Well…” Glenda gave me a coy look. “That handsome detective being sweet on you… we thought he might have given you a bit of extra information on the side.”
I blushed in spite of myself. “He’s not sweet on… I don’t have any special relationship with Inspector O’Connor.”
Glenda looked at the others and they exchanged a knowing smile.
Irritated, I said, “And besides, the police aren’t sure it’s murder yet. They’re still waiting for the results of the post-mortem and—”
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Mabel. “It’s murder, all right. I told the Inspector so myself—although why I thought he would listen to me, I don’t know… Young people nowadays—always full of their own ideas and never listening to the advice of their elders.” She sniffed. “You would have thought that after all the help we gave him on the last case—practically identifying the murderer for him—he would be a bit more appreciative of our contribution.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. The Old Biddies’ contribution on the last case had mostly involved skulking around Oxford and getting stuck in college broom cupboards and I was the unlucky person who had ended up identifying the murderer.
Mabel leaned forwards and gave an emphatic nod. “There was evil done last night. You mark my words, Gemma—there is much more to that girl’s death than meets the eye. And if that Inspector O’Connor knows how to do his job, he should investigate the girl who was the waitress at the party.”
I frowned. “You said the girls knew each other… I don’t see how. They seemed so different. I can’t imagine they would have had much chance to cross paths—”
“They’re both students at the University,” said Florence excitedly. “They’re both doing Fine Art.”
“Well, I had a little talk with her, dear,” said Ethel. “The young waitress at the bar. She served me right after Sarah—made me a lovely hot toddy—and we got chatting. She’s having a bit of a tough time with her studies and having to work several part-time jobs as well, to supplement her student funds. To be honest with you, I think she just needed a sympathetic ear. She was quite upset by the way Sarah treated her.”
Ethel used to be librarian at our local library and I’d always remembered her gentle, smiling face—she was just the type of kindly soul who you’d want to share your troubles with.
“Her name is Fiona Stanley,” added Ethel. “And she’s in her third year, just like the dead girl.”
“So they were at the Art School together?”
Ethel nodded. “But I don’t think you could say they were friends.”
“Hah! Friends!” Mabel smacked the table scornfully. “Enemies, more like.”
“Devlin said you didn’t actually see anything, though,” I reminded them.
Mabel shrugged. Obviously eye-witness evidence was a minor detail. “She was poisoned,” she said, nodding ominously. “The question is—by what?”
The bell at the tearoom door jingled, announcing the arrival of a new customer, and regretfully I left the Old Biddies’ table. Much as I would have liked to stay and gossip about the murder, I had work to do. In fact, being the only person serving that morning, I soon began to feel overwhelmed. It was wonderful that my tearoom was doing such rip-roaring business but it was also beginning to fall into chaos. Orders were delayed, food got cold before it could be taken to tables, and I could see that customers were starting to look irritated.
“Is Cassie taking the day off today?” Mabel called out to me as I rushed past their table with a tray of cucumber finger sandwiches intended for the family group next to them.
I paused for a moment. “No-o… I’m not sure why she’s not come in yet. She’s probably held up somewhere…” I tried to conceal my irritation with Cassie. If she was going to be late, it would have been nice if she could have let me know. I had tried calling her a couple of times but her phone had gone straight to voicemail.