by H. Y. Hanna
Because the tearoom didn’t open until late morning, I usually had a bit of time to myself in the mornings, particularly if I got up earlier. It was now just past eight o’clock and I had a couple of hours to kill. In spite of mellowing slightly towards Devlin, my frustration about the murder investigation—or lack thereof—rose up again. I just couldn’t abandon it. I knew in my gut that something was wrong about Dame Eccleston’s death and I had to find a way to prove it.
I thought back to the conversation I had had with Lincoln yesterday. He was right: the best way to prove “foul play” was to have a post-mortem. But how could I convince Devlin to agree? Then I remembered something else: Devlin had said that a family member could request further examination of the body…
Of course! I could ask Mary! If she put in the request, that would bypass all of Devlin’s objections. And surely she would be keen to find out the truth about whether her mother had been murdered?
Galvanised into action, I called Eccleston House, only to be told by Riza that Mary was at St Cecilia’s College. I debated for a moment, then headed out, cycling eagerly towards the college situated on the east side of Oxford. St Cecilia’s had the distinction of being the last women’s-only college in the University and was hanging on precariously to this title. For someone brought up with equal rights for women as the norm, it was weird for me to think of a time when Oxford was a male only-domain. But women hadn’t actually been allowed into the University until the early 19th century. And even then, they had to attend special women’s-only colleges and weren’t given proper degrees. Still, things had certainly reversed since then and all the other women’s colleges, such as Lady Margaret Hall and St Hilda’s College, had slowly gone “co-ed”. All, that is, except for St Cecilia’s. And somehow, I didn’t think that St Cecilia’s would hold out for much longer either.
I pulled up outside the imposing Victorian stone facade of the college, which was partly covered by a blanket of ivy and was one of the most beautiful frontages of any of the University buildings, especially in the autumn, when the ivy leaves turned into a rippling sea of orange and gold. St Cecilia’s was not one of the largest Oxford colleges but it more than made up for this with its beautiful grounds, in particular the garden surrounding the college chapel.
A stony-faced porter stopped me as I entered through the college gates. “No visitors today,” he said. “We have had a bereavement at the college and it is not open to any outsiders.”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I’m a member of the University,” I said quickly, pulling out my wallet and flashing my old university card. “I’m here to see Mary Eccleston, Dame Eccleston’s daughter.”
He thawed slightly. “Ah, in that case…” He nodded his head towards the rear of the college. “I believe you might find Miss Eccleston in the college chapel.”
“Thank you,” I said and started in the direction he had indicated.
I hurried across the main quadrangle, taking care to follow the unspoken Oxford custom of not walking on the grass, and made my way down a connecting colonnade into a second quad, which was paved with large flagstones. I had been to St Cecilia’s a few times when I was a student and I remembered now that the chapel garden was entered through the archway at the far end of this second quad. I looked around as I walked, admiring the tall casement windows and the symmetrical line of the decorative Dutch gables. I remembered coming here for tutorials and parties, and enjoying the different atmosphere of an all-female college.
Glancing around now, it didn’t seem like very much had changed. That was one of the things about Oxford—it had a timeless quality about it, perhaps because the buildings were so ancient and the University rituals and traditions extended back centuries. Oh sure, there were modern changes and developments, but the heart of Oxford remained somehow the same. It was one of the few places you could return to, no matter how long you had been away, and always feel like you were stepping back in time.
I passed through the archway and stepped out into the beautiful garden that surrounded the college chapel. Wow. I could see why it was Joseph’s pride and joy. Everywhere I looked, there were gorgeous flowers already in bloom, the different varieties artfully arranged so as to display to their best advantage, and the colours blending in perfect harmony. Around them were planted mature trees with graceful spreading branches and neatly trimmed shrubbery which formed an elegant backdrop for the flowers.
As I began to walk down the path towards the chapel, I noticed a bank of plants lining the flower border on my right: tall, elegant stalks each bearing rows upon rows of bell-shaped flowers in various shades of purple and lavender, and the occasional cluster of creamy white. My interest sharpened as I realised what they were. Foxgloves. They were blooming unusually early, perhaps as a testament to Joseph’s skill. There was something at the base of them: a hunched-over shape which moved slightly. Then I realised it wasn’t something—it was someone. Curious, I left the path and went closer.
It was Joseph. He was crouched beside the border, his hands moving lovingly as he carefully scooped out small depressions in the soil in front of the foxgloves and deposited a series of seedlings, gently patting the earth back around them. I could hear a voice murmuring and I was shocked to realise it was Joseph talking. Like Audrey had said, I’d almost thought Joseph to be mute—I’d never heard him utter so much as a word before. But he was speaking now. And with another shock, I realised that he was speaking to the plants. In a soft, cooing tone, he was talking to them, giving them words of love and encouragement, such as you would hear a mother tenderly telling her child…
I shifted back, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be listening to this. Like I was spying on someone during their intimate moments with a loved one—which was ridiculous when you thought about it. For heaven’s sake, the man was talking to plants!
My sudden movement must have caught Joseph’s attention because he jerked his head around and fixed those deep-set eyes on me.
“Oh, s-sorry!” I stammered. “I thought… I mean, I didn’t mean to…” I trailed off helplessly, half embarrassed and half annoyed that I felt the need to explain myself again.
He said nothing, remaining kneeling in the dirt, glaring up at me.
This is ridiculous. I mustn’t let myself be intimidated by a barmy college gardener!
Standing up taller, I said as calmly as I could: “I was looking for Mary. I had been told that she was in the college chapel?”
He stared at me for a moment longer and then, still not saying anything, he made a strange jerking motion with his head towards the building behind us.
“Ah, she’s there? Great. I’ll… um… just go along and see her now.”
I walked as quickly as I could to the chapel entrance, conscious of his eyes boring into my back the whole way, and relieved when I could finally disappear into the small sandstone building. I paused for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness within. Like the rest of the college, the chapel was on a modest scale—nothing like the grand cathedral of Christ Church College or the Gothic splendour of Magdalen College chapel. Nevertheless, it was beautiful in its simplicity, with its soaring arched ceilings and the white walls highlighted only by a few narrow stained-glass windows.
For a moment, I thought the chapel was empty, then I realised that there was a lone figure sitting in the very first pew. It was Mary. She was sitting very still, with her head bowed. I hesitated, suddenly feeling embarrassed again at intruding on another person’s private moment. I turned, planning to leave her in peace, but my rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the wooden floor and she glanced around.
“Gemma?”
“Hi…” I said weakly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you…”
She rose and came towards me. I wondered if she had been crying and felt suddenly the archetypal English horror of having to confront such raw emotion in public. But as she came closer, I saw to my relief that her face was calm and composed.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I didn’t realise you were… It’s not important, I can come back another time…”
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t really doing anything. It’s just nice to sit in the chapel sometimes. It’s quiet and peaceful… and nice to be alone for a bit. I mean, everyone has been really kind to me, but I… I feel like I don’t want to talk about Mummy’s death anymore… Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, of course,” I said gently. “I can understand completely.”
“Was there any particular reason you were looking for me?” asked Mary.
“Er…” I hesitated. After what she had just said, how on earth could I bring up the subject of a post-mortem on her mother’s body? I scrabbled around for something else to say. “Um… I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving me that recipe for your Victoria sponge cake. I’ve been telling Dora, my chef at the tearoom, how delicious it is and she’s very keen to try your version.”
“Oh, sure,” said Mary, a smile lighting up her face. “I’d be delighted to share it. I don’t have it here at the college though. If you give me your email, I can send it to you tonight. I’ll have a look for it when I get home.”
“No rush, no rush,” I said. I turned to leave the chapel. “Thanks. I’ll leave you now…”
But she fell into step beside me, following me out into the sunlit garden. “I’ll come with you. I wasn’t planning to stay much longer anyway. It’s nice to see you again, Gemma,” she added with a shy smile.
I smiled back, feeling like a worm inside for even suspecting her of her mother’s murder. Surely this sweet, shy girl couldn’t have murdered anyone?
“The porter at the gate told me that the college was officially in mourning,” I said as we walked slowly along the path. “Has there been a memorial service already?”
Mary shook her head. “No, they want to wait until after the funeral, which will be on Friday.”
Yikes. That meant I was running out of time. I bit my lip. It was not the right time to ask now—but would it ever be the right time? I took a deep breath and said:
“Mary, I did actually come to ask you something specific.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering…” I hesitated, then said in a rush. “Would you… would you consider requesting a post-mortem on your mother’s body?”
She stopped walking and stared at me. “A post-mortem?”
“Yes, there’s some uncertainty over her cause of death—whether it might have been a heart attack, after all. I think it’s important to confirm that and the only way of knowing for sure is if a forensic pathologist performs a post-mortem.”
Mary looked at me in horror. “You want to cut up Mummy’s body?”
I winced. “Well, it’s not exactly like that. I’m told it’s a very discreet cut and they restore everything—”
“No!” she cried. “I can’t do that to Mummy! She would have hated it! Strangers cutting her open and looking inside her—”
“It would just be one stranger really—the pathologist,” I said hurriedly. “And they’d only be interested in her body—they wouldn’t really be looking at her as a person—” I broke off, cursing myself. Argh! What a dumb thing to say.
But really, everything seemed to be the wrong thing to say. I would have to just stop tiptoeing around the subject, I decided grimly. I took another deep breath and said:
“Mary, if there’s a chance that your mother could have been the victim of… um… foul play, wouldn’t you want to know?”
Her eyes widened. “You think Mummy could have been murdered?”
I hesitated, then thought: What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, I do. I think the heart attack was just a cover-up, a decoy.”
“But Dr Foster said—”
“Dr Foster may have been wrong,” I said bluntly. “That’s why we need a post-mortem. So we can double-check and see if your mother might have been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Mary’s voice rose even higher. “But who would want to poison Mummy?”
I didn’t want to say that half of Meadowford village, not to mention the cat show competitors and people here at the college, probably wanted to poison her mother. I tried to evade the question. “Look, we don’t need to go into all that now—the first step is to conduct an autopsy to confirm things.”
“Do the police suspect someone?” asked Mary. “Is that why they want to do a post-mortem?”
“Um… well, actually the police haven’t ordered one,” I admitted. “They’re still… uh… gathering evidence to support the case. But it’s crucial that one is done. And you, as a family member, can request for the body to be examined, without having to wait for the police to open an investigation. It would have to be an independent pathologist and at your own expense,” I added. “But… I hope you feel that it’s money well worth spending.”
“No, I won’t do it,” said Mary suddenly. “No, it’s not the money—I don’t mind spending that—but it’s disrespectful to Mummy and I can’t do that to her. She would hate it—I just know she would—and I can almost hear her voice…” Mary shuddered. “She would never forgive me.”
She threw a scared look over her shoulder, as if half-expecting her mother’s ghost to suddenly materialise out of nowhere and start berating her.
“If your mother was murdered, she would want you to help the police catch the killer,” I said desperately.
“But you just said that the police didn’t think there was enough evidence,” Mary pointed out. “If they did, they would have started a murder investigation, wouldn’t they?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“If the police think there is a good reason to do it, then I’ll go along, but otherwise, no,” said Mary. “I won’t let Mummy be cut open just because of some gossip that’s going around the village.”
I looked at her with new eyes. Mary Eccleston was not as naïve—nor as much of a meek little lamb— as I had thought her to be.
I sighed, defeated. “Okay. But will you please think about it again, especially as the funeral is on Friday?”
Mary nodded and, with that, I had to be satisfied. She walked me to the college front gate and watched as I mounted my bicycle and pushed off. I glanced back as I cycled away and saw her standing there: a small, plump figure silhouetted in the open archway. There was something lost and lonely about her, and I felt a wave of sympathy again.
But mixed in with the pity was something else—a flicker of unease, a feeling of doubt for the first time. I thought back to that vehement refusal to ask for a post-mortem. No matter how much I might like her, I was aware that Mary Eccleston only had to hold out for two more days and then her mother would be safely buried underground, with the chance of an autopsy very unlikely, and the chance of discovering if she had really been murdered gone.
Oh, everything Mary had said made complete sense—she was behaving exactly as a dutiful daughter would have, in such a situation—but I couldn’t help thinking that it was also a very convenient attitude to have if you had poisoned your mother and didn’t want the truth to come out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I cycled back from St Cecilia’s, feeling very despondent. This case seemed to be going nowhere and I could see that soon, with Dame Eccleston’s funeral, the chance to catch the killer would be lost forever. Once she was buried, it would be even harder—I’d have to fight to get an exhumation order, never mind a post-mortem.
I sighed impatiently. Oh, why did I care anyway? The woman had been a horrible, obnoxious tyrant and had probably deserved everything she got, if the gossip was to be believed. Why was I so keen to find her killer?
Because justice needs to be done, answered a voice in my head. Regardless of who the victim was and how unpleasant she had been, she did not deserve to be coldly murdered like that. And the killer did not deserve to get away with it. And if I had it within my power to see justice done, then I knew I should do everything I could to make it happen. I couldn’t let it go, just b
ecause there were a few hurdles. I had never been a quitter and I didn’t intend to start now.
Besides, I thought wryly, on a purely practical level, if I don’t do something about it, my mother and the Old Biddies probably will. I shuddered to think what they would come up with next in their bid to investigate the case.
I arrived at the tearoom to discover that my fears were well justified. It was still half an hour until we officially opened but, as I cycled up outside the tearoom, I could see through the large front window pane that there was a group of people huddled over a table by the window. I parked my bike in the adjoining courtyard, which used to serve the stables that gave the Little Stables Tearoom its name, and hurried inside through the back door. Cassie and Dora were in the kitchen, getting a few things ready, but I barely called a greeting as I whisked past and out to the dining room. There, I found my mother and the Old Biddies talking excitedly to each other.
“Mother?” I said, going up to them. “What are you doing here? I didn’t realise you were coming to the tearoom.”
“Oh, I’m on my way to the garden centre to see about that sale,” my mother said. “I thought I’d pop in, seeing as I was passing by, and have a little chat with Mabel and the others—” She looked around furtively and lowered her voice in a dramatic fashion, even though there was no one else in the tearoom. “—about The Case.”
“Gemma, did Inspector O’Connor say anything to you last night?” asked Glenda eagerly. “Are the police going to start a murder investigation?”
“No,” I said, trying to hide my frustration. “Devlin says there isn’t enough evidence to justify—”
“Codswallop!” declared Mabel. “Young people today think they know everything. You tell your Inspector O’Connor that I was already a grandmother when he was still in nappies. In fact, I could have been changing his nappies. I have half a mind to go to the CID offices and tell him myself—”
