Till Death Do Us Tart (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Yeah, it’s looking that way. The thefts are just too well planned and executed.”

  “Did you find the quad bikes taken at the fête?”

  Devlin shook his head. “No, and the Superintendent wasn’t too happy about that, I can tell you. It was a huge embarrassment to have his top CID man there and for the bikes to be stolen from right under our noses.”

  “Well, you can’t be everywhere all the time,” I said reasonably. “You were dealing with Dame Eccleston’s death at the cat show. Speaking of which…” I leaned forwards. “Are the police happy with the verdict on that?”

  Devlin looked surprised. “Yes, why wouldn’t we be?”

  I shrugged. “I just wondered if maybe there was any… um… uncertainty about the cause of death.”

  “No, her doctor signed the death certificate. Death from natural causes. Heart attack.”

  “And you trust his opinion?”

  Devlin looked at me curiously. “What’s this about, Gemma?” Then understanding dawned on his face and he groaned. “Don’t tell me: you’ve been speaking to Mabel Cooke and her friends.”

  “Well, not just them… my mother too… They all think that there’s something fishy about Dame Eccleston’s death at the show.”

  “What do you mean: ‘fishy’? You’re talking about ‘foul play’, aren’t you? Mabel thinks it was murder… as usual,” said Devlin dryly.

  I grinned. Devlin was feeling less charitable than usual towards the Old Biddies because of an incident two weeks ago when they had got him and an entire SOCO team out to the village school to investigate a “suspicious mound” which had appeared overnight on the front lawn. Mabel had been sure it was a buried body. It had turned out to be a large marrow bone which Mrs Patterson’s Newfoundland had stashed there for future enjoyment.

  “The thing is, there is something that doesn’t quite add up,” I said.

  “Which is?”

  Quickly, I told him about the pillbox inconsistency. Devlin wasn’t particularly impressed.

  “Gemma, there could be any number of reasons to explain that,” he said impatiently. “You can’t jump to conclusions based on your mother’s vague memory. She could have been wrong.”

  “My mother is never wrong,” I said without thinking.

  Devlin gave me a look.

  I held up my hands. “Okay, okay, that’s not true—but in this instance, I do think she’s right. There is something odd about this whole thing with the angina pills… I mean, what if they were tampered with or… Do you still have the pill that Dame Eccleston was holding in her hand?” I asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Can you test it? Please? Just to verify what it is.”

  Devlin sighed. “All right. I’ll ask them to check it tomorrow. But ten to one, Mabel and her friends are just making a mountain out of a molehill as usual.” He sat back and changed the subject. “How did the house-hunting go today?”

  I told him about my disheartening afternoon.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll find somewhere eventually,” said Devlin. “And if you don’t… well, I’ve been thinking, Gemma, maybe you’d like to—”

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” The waitress paused by our table.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” said Devlin.

  “Me neither,” I said. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

  We paid and left the restaurant, stepping out into a balmy spring evening. Devlin clasped my hand in his and we strolled down the wide pavement. Little Clarendon Street was one of the prettiest streets in Oxford at night, with quaint little boutique shops and cafés lining the street, and fairy lights strung across the space between the buildings, forming a sort of twinkling canopy above our heads. We walked slowly, reluctant to get back to Devlin’s car and end the evening.

  “You could come back to my place,” Devlin suggested, his hand warm against my skin as he caressed the nape of my neck.

  I sighed. “I’d better not. It’s pretty late and you’ve got an early start tomorrow, even if I have the day off. Besides, I haven’t seen Muesli much today. I’ve been out and busy all day. I should probably spend a bit of time with her before going to bed.”

  “Rejected in favour of a cat,” Devlin teased. “Still, since it’s Muesli, I’ll forgive you. Okay, how about I give you a call tomorrow evening then? If I manage to get off on time, maybe we can grab some takeaway and go back to my place.”

  “Sounds great,” I said with a smile.

  A short while later, we pulled up outside my parents’ residence and I glanced up at the elegant Victorian townhouse. There seemed to be a glow of light behind the thick drapes at the front bay windows. I felt a prickle of irritation, hoping that my mother hadn’t stayed up to wait for me. This was ridiculous. I felt like I was eighteen again, creeping home after an illicit night out with the undesirable boyfriend. I laughed to myself. In a way, not much had changed.

  “What’s so funny?” said Devlin.

  “Nothing. Just… something ironic…” I put my hand on the door handle. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

  Devlin leaned towards me and pulled me into his arms. I melted against him as his lips trailed gently from my earlobe down the side of my jaw, towards the corner of my mouth. I turned my head and our lips met, his mouth slanting across mine as he kissed me until I was breathless. His hands drifted down my side and I heard a soft click, then felt my seatbelt being released, freeing me to turn more fully into his arms. The windows of the car were steaming up. My pulse raced as Devlin pulled me even closer, his body hard against mine…

  A loud rapping sounded on the glass next to us. RAP-RAP-RAP!

  “What the hell—?” Devlin jerked up.

  I looked at my window and yelped.

  Four wrinkled old faces were peering through the fogged-up window, their noses squashed grotesquely against the glass. A gnarled, old hand rapped again on the glass.

  “Gemma?” came my mother’s voice. “Gemma, are you in there?”

  Oh God.

  Devlin muttered under his breath and looked away, running a hand through his hair as I hastily rearranged my clothing and sat up in the front passenger seat. I lowered the window pane to find myself staring at my mother, surrounded by the Old Biddies. They thrust their heads into the opening, jostling with each other to get a better view.

  “Gemma? We heard the car pulling up but when you didn’t come in, we came out to see what was going on. What on earth are you doing in the car?” my mother said.

  Glenda giggled next to her. “I expect they are—what do the Americans call it—‘making out’?”

  I flushed, mortified. “We… we were just saying good night,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Mabel glared at Devlin and wagged a finger at him. “If you spent less time snogging in cars, young man, and more time investigating suspicious deaths, we wouldn’t have a potential murderer running around the village.”

  “Oh, don’t badger the boy, Mabel,” said Glenda. “He’s allowed to have a night off! And besides, you know what they say—all work and no play makes Devlin a dull boy!” She giggled again.

  Oh God. This isn’t happening to me.

  By now, lights were coming on in the street and neighbours were starting to peer out of windows and come out onto front doorsteps. I could just imagine the gossip that would be making the rounds tomorrow.

  “Well! I think it’s disgusting behaviour,” said my mother, pursing her lips. “You should have been escorted to your door, Gemma, like a proper lady.” She gave Devlin a dirty look. “A real gentleman wouldn’t have been mauling you in a car in the middle of the street.”

  “Devlin was not mauling me!” I cried, exasperated. “We were just… Look, can you go in now, please? I’ll be along in a minute.”

  My mother sniffed with disapproval but withdrew her head from the window, followed by the rest of the Old Biddies—although not before Glenda gave us a lewd wink.

 
“Sorry,” I muttered to Devlin as I raised the window again. “I don’t know what the Old Biddies are still doing here. They came for tea earlier and should have left hours ago…”

  “Probably roped in by your mother to make sure you were escorted safely to your door like a lady,” said Devlin with a wry chuckle.

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know which century she’s living in! Honestly, this is ridiculous! I’m nearly thirty and I have absolutely no privacy… Living with my parents is driving me crazy! I need to get a place of my own!” I sighed and my shoulders sagged. “But I don’t know how I’m going to find anywhere I can afford in Oxford…”

  Devlin reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. “Look, Gemma… I wasn’t sure about saying anything because I didn’t want to rush you but… I was going to suggest this in the restaurant earlier: how about if you moved in with me?”

  I stared at him. “With you?”

  “Yes,” said Devlin evenly. “I’ve got the space, we want to spend more time together, you want to get out of your parents’ pocket… It seems like the perfect solution.”

  “You mean… live together?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to think of it like that, if you don’t want to. Think of it as sharing a place with a friend.” He gave me a sexy grin. “A very good friend.”

  “Don’t answer me now,” he added, as he saw me hesitating. “Take your time and think about it. But the offer is there if you want.” He leaned across and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “And now you’d better go in, Miss Rose, before I’m tempted to maul you again.”

  I laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek, then let myself out of the car and ran up the steps to the front door where my mother and the Old Biddies were hovering in the doorway, waiting for me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was up bright and early the next morning and came downstairs half expecting to find my parents at breakfast but, to my surprise, the house was empty. My father, I remembered, was out this morning—it was one of the few days when he still lectured at the University—but my mother had left me a mysterious note saying she was out “doing some investigating”. Hmm… I had a slightly uneasy feeling about that. But I tried to ignore it and instead, as I set about rustling up some milk and cereal for breakfast, I thought again about Devlin’s offer to move in with him. I felt a little thrill at the thought. Should I say yes?

  Why not? Devlin was right—it was the ideal solution. We could spend more time together, I wouldn’t have to worry about my budget, it would be easy for getting to work… and I wouldn’t have the hassle with “pet-friendly” landlords either. Aside from the fact that Devlin’s place was in the country, away from the main roads, Muesli absolutely loved him—and I knew that she had him completely wrapped around her little paw.

  My mind began conjuring up a romantic daydream of cosy evenings with me cuddled up against Devlin on the couch, my head on his shoulder, his hand gently stroking my hair, as we watched TV together…

  The sound of the kettle boiling brought me back to reality and I hastily pushed the daydream away as I made myself a mug of tea. Mustn’t rush into things, I decided. I must think about it some more.

  Mondays were my day off—although “day off” usually translated into a day catching up on emails and admin. This morning, though, as I sat down to do some dreary accounting, I realised that I had left some of the paperwork I needed at the tearoom. It wasn’t really urgent—I could get the papers tomorrow and finish off the accounting in the evenings or when I was next off—but when I looked out of the window and saw the spring sunshine, I decided to cycle out to Meadowford to get them now.

  Ten minutes later, as my bicycle headed out of Oxford and I breathed deeply of the fresh air, I smiled to myself. Getting through the long dark winter had been the hardest thing I’d faced since coming back from Australia. Somehow, the romantic memories of England had omitted all the cold wintry mornings and gloomy grey days, the freezing fog and the icy wind numbing your fingers and slicing right through your clothes into your very bones. And the relentless rain! It had only taken me a few weeks back in the country to finally understand why the English were so obsessed with the weather. Still, it looked like Spring had arrived at last: aside from a few April showers and one night of sudden frost, it had been bright and sunny in the past week, and the warmer weather seemed here to stay.

  The village seemed unusually quiet this morning and I didn’t see anyone I knew well enough to stop and chat. Surprisingly, I also didn’t see the Old Biddies anywhere. I would have thought that they’d be out and about in the village first thing, catching up with the other senior residents on the gossip from the weekend.

  I got to the tearoom, ran in and picked up the papers, then turned my bike around to head for home. But a part of me wanted to prolong the lovely excuse to be out enjoying the countryside so, instead of taking the usual route, I decided to take a detour which would go through some back country lanes. It would take a bit longer but hey—it was my day off, right?

  It was only as I was freewheeling along a narrow lane surrounded on either side by neatly trimmed hedges that I realised I was very close to Eccleston House. In fact, the hedge that ran alongside the road to my right bordered the rear of the property and, as I followed the curve of the road around the bend and the hedge thinned out, the house itself came into view. Seen from the rear, it wasn’t as grand but it was still an imposing residence, with its classical proportions and Palladian architectural features—

  Wait. What was that?

  I squinted through the trees surrounding the property, then my eyes widened and stared.

  No way. I must be seeing things.

  The bike sailed closer and, through a gap in the trees, I saw four small figures climbing furtively into an open window.

  I nearly crashed my bike.

  It was the Old Biddies.

  What on earth were they doing?

  Hastily, I pulled over and jumped off my bike, then thrust it against a tree and sprinted towards the house. I arrived just as Glenda and Ethel were trying to shove Florence over the window ledge, while Mabel—who was already inside—was trying to pull her in.

  “Push! Push! Harder!” ordered Mabel, tugging on Florence’s hands.

  “We… we are!” puffed Glenda as she and Ethel shoved themselves ineffectually against Florence’s ample bottom. “I told you—you need to lose weight, Flo—”

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I demanded, coming up behind them.

  “Eeek!”

  Glenda and Ethel sprang up guiltily; Mabel jumped and let go of Florence, who flailed her arms wildly, then pitched backwards and landed with a thump in the flower bed beneath the window.

  “Gemma!” said Mabel, recovering with spectacular aplomb. “Er… how lovely to see you, dear.”

  “What are you doing?” I repeated.

  “We were just… ah… ha-ha… er…”

  “Admiring Dame Eccleston’s windows,” supplied Glenda.

  “Yes!” said Mabel, nodding vigorously. “We heard so much about the… er… marvellous architecture of Eccleston House…”

  “And we’re taking a course on Georgian architecture at the community centre,” Ethel chimed in.

  Bloody hell, how can they look like such sweet, little old ladies and be such slick, remorseless liars?

  “You weren’t admiring the window, you were climbing in the window,” I said tartly.

  “I think we’d better tell her,” said Florence, standing up and wincing as she rubbed her sore bottom.

  “Oh, very well,” said Mabel irritably. She drew herself up grandly and said, “We were conducting a search of the premises.”

  “You were breaking and entering!” I said. “Even the police can’t search a property without a warrant—what were you thinking?”

  “Oh, tosh!” said Mabel scornfully. “We were only going to have a nosy around, no harm done—”

  “Yes, we only wanted to find out a bit more about the Eccleston
s,” said Glenda.

  I looked beyond Mabel’s shoulder. She seemed to be standing in some sort of small utility room. It was the room where Cassie and I had found Mary grooming the cat yesterday, I realised.

  “What if Mary had come in and found you here?” I said.

  “Oh, she’s not home this morning,” said Mabel, waving her hand dismissively. “We made sure of that. She’s gone with Audrey Simmons to see the family solicitor. And your mother’s distracting the maid at the front door—”

  “My what?” I stared at them, aghast. “Don’t tell me you’ve got my mother roped into this as well?”

  “Oh, she’s marvellous, Gemma,” gushed Glenda. “She’s got such an elegant way about her, nobody would believe that she’s telling fibs about things—”

  “Oh my God, I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” I muttered.

  “You could help us, Gemma,” Florence suggested hopefully, looking me up and down. “You’re a lot thinner and lighter on your feet.”

  “Yes, yes, why don’t you climb in and have a quick look around the house?” asked Mabel.

  Glenda nodded eagerly. “Maybe even go upstairs—”

  “No!” I said. “Are you mad? No, no, we’re all leaving now and just hope that the Ecclestons haven’t installed any security cameras!”

  Five minutes later, four sulky little old ladies shuffled beside me as I led the way around the side of the house and back onto the front drive. I saw my mother as soon as we got there. She was standing on the front doorstep, chatting to an olive-skinned girl in an apron—Riza, the Ecclestons’ maid. The girl was gesticulating wildly, obviously in the middle of telling a story:

  “… and the Madam, she is very angry—shouting and screaming like crazy person. She said, ‘You stupid girl! You always put it back the wrong way! How many times do I have to tell you? Are you an imbecile?’ Yes, ma’am, she say that,” Riza recounted with relish. “And then she throws book at Miss Mary!”

  “Oh my goodness, did she really?” said my mother with melodramatic horror. “And what did Miss Mary do?”