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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Midnight Mystic. Hyacinthus orientalis,” murmured Joseph reverently, his fingers caressing the dainty dark florets. His eyes were shining, his expression rapt. For a moment, it was as if he had forgotten that I was there. Then he looked back at me and, slowly, a broad grin spread across his face.

  I blinked. It was like looking at a completely different person. Gone was the creepy, dour gardener—in his place was a stoop-shouldered, middle-aged man with twinkling eyes and a gentle smile.

  “Thank you, miss. S’best present anyone’s ever given me,” he said shyly. “Ta very much.”

  ***

  The next morning, I was still feeling warm and fuzzy from my visit to Joseph’s cottage (yes, he had even invited me in and offered me some tea!) when a familiar tall handsome figure stepped into the Little Stables Tearoom. Several female eyes widened and heads turned to watch appreciatively as Devlin strode across the room towards me. He was looking very suave and handsome in his work clothes—a charcoal tailored suit with crisp white shirt and Italian silk tie. He paused by the counter and grinned at Cassie, handing her a small package.

  “Special delivery… for your brother, Liam.”

  Cassie’s eyes lit up. “You haven’t found his camera?”

  “Yup. One of our boys found it yesterday as they were sifting through all the stuff we picked up in the raid on the Agri-Crime gang.”

  “This is brilliant! He’s going to be so chuffed,” said Cassie. “I’m going to ring him right now!”

  She disappeared into the kitchen and Devlin glanced around the tearoom, which was humming with the hubbub of conversation and the cheerful clink of crockery. “I see that life is back to normal,” he observed with a smile. “I’m surprised Mabel Cooke and her friends aren’t here, actually.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will be soon,” I assured him. “They’re probably in the post office shop at the moment, gossiping with half of Meadowford about the latest news.”

  “What latest news?”

  “Mary Eccleston’s decided to sell Eccleston House. She wants a fresh start and she told me she always fancied living in the US for a while, so she’s applied to do a graduate degree at one of the colleges there and is going to live in Boston.”

  Devlin whistled. “She seemed like such a scared little thing—I would never have thought she’d have the guts to go and live in another country.”

  “I think she’s finally coming out of her shell, getting a chance to discover who she really is—or who she wants to be—and I think it’s great,” I said enthusiastically.

  “Good for her,” Devlin said with a nod. “Well, I wish her luck. Hey, listen—I’m getting off early today for a change. Fancy going out for a movie tonight?”

  I smiled. “Love to—although it’ll have to be a later one. I need to pop back to my parents to pick up my mail.”

  He frowned. “You know, Gemma, why don’t you just change all your addresses officially to mine? Saves you having to worry about mail going to your parents’ place. Since we’re going to be living together now, it makes sense—”

  “Actually, Devlin…” I hesitated. “I wanted to speak to you about that.’

  He raised his eyebrows at my serious tone. “Yes?”

  I took a deep breath. “I… er… I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to… well, to live together. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” I said hastily. “I’ve loved staying at your place and it’s great being able to spend more time together… and you’ve been wonderful, letting me and Muesli just barge into your life like that… but… well… I feel like I need to have a place of my own. At least for a little while.” I gave him a nervous look. “I… I hope you can understand?”

  Devlin looked at me silently for a moment, then he smiled. “Yeah, I can understand.”

  I felt relief wash over me. “Really? Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “You just want to be able to dump your clothes all over the place with no one telling you off,” said Devlin with a teasing grin. “No, but seriously, Gemma, I do understand. And in the meantime, you’re still welcome to stay at my place for as long as you need, until you find somewhere to rent.”

  I felt a rush of love for him. Impulsively, I reached up to hug him but, at that moment, the door to the tearoom burst open and four little old ladies trotted in.

  “Inspector O’Connor! Just the man we wanted to see!” came Mabel Cooke’s booming voice.

  Devlin groaned under his breath. He turned around and squared his shoulders. “Yes, how can I help you, ladies?” he said in his most formal manner.

  “It’s a hand, Inspector!” said Glenda Bailey excitedly. “A hand in the skip!”

  “Perhaps not just a hand,” Florence Doyle added.

  “I’ve never liked skips,” said Ethel with a shiver.

  Devlin looked at them in bewilderment. “What skip? What are you talking about?”

  “The skip bin outside No. 14 on Lemon Tree Lane,” Mabel said impatiently. “The owners are Londoners—they only keep the cottage for use on odd weekends and they’re having some renovations done. There’s been a skip bin outside the property for weeks. A real eyesore it is, I tell you! It’s no wonder Americans call them ‘dumpsters’—much as I abhor some of the American terms for things, this one seems far more appropriate than the British—”

  “Oh, Mabel, never mind what the Americans call it—tell him about the hand!” cried Glenda.

  “Ah, yes, that’s right—it’s a hand, Inspector,” said Mabel, as if that explained everything.

  Devlin sighed. “Mrs Cooke, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  Mabel leaned forwards and said in a loud stage whisper, “The hand might be connected to a body. A murdered body, hidden in the skip.”

  I suppressed a groan. Here we go again.

  EPILOGUE

  “Thanks for bringing Muesli to meet me, Gemma—she’s a darling! We’re delighted to have her on the Therapy Cats team.” Jane Banks beamed at me from her doorway as she watched me place Muesli’s carrier into the front basket on my bike. “And thank you for being so understanding about having to go through an assessment again. I know you’d done it already with Audrey Simmons… um-ahem…” She cleared her throat. “But now that I’ve taken over the programme, it’s good for me to meet all the cats again.”

  “No problem, Mrs Banks,” I said with a smile.

  “I’ll send you the paperwork and, once we’ve got you in our system, we can get started with scheduling your visits.”

  I nodded and waved, then pushed off, cycling slowly back towards the centre of Oxford. Jane Banks lived south of Oxford, a few streets down from Folly Bridge, which crossed the River Thames and led into the south end of the university city. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant ride this morning—there had been heavy rains in the night and the roads were now wet and slippery, with cars going past spraying me with muddy rainwater as they drove through the puddles.

  It only added to my general bad mood. Now that the excitement of the murder investigation was over and life was returning to “normal”, I was only too aware of the more mundane problem still facing me: where could I find a place of my own that I could afford? The thought of another day like the last one I’d spent house-hunting with Cassie made me deeply depressed.

  I crossed Folly Bridge, then, on a sudden impulse, turned off the road, heading for the towpath that ran alongside the river. I would take a detour, I decided, cycling around the perimeter of the city rather than through the centre. The roads would be quieter and, hopefully, I wouldn’t get splashed so much. It seemed like a good plan, until I rolled onto the towpath and found it filled with as many puddles as the main road. An indignant “Meorrw!” came from the cat carrier in front of the handlebars as water splashed up.

  “Sorry, Muesli!” I said, negotiating my way around two muddy puddles. I was beginning to wonder if I had made a really bad mistake. The ground here was not only wet and slippery but also dotted with potholes. I grimaced as the bike rattled across on
e, making the cat carrier bounce in the front basket.

  “Meeeorrw!”

  “Sorry, sorry…” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the path ahead. A huge puddle was coming up in front of me, but if I tried to skirt it, it would take me too close to the edge of the towpath. No thanks, I don’t need a dip in the river, I thought, gritting my teeth. I’ll just have to go through the puddle. Oh well, I can’t get much wetter than I am already…

  I pedalled a bit harder, thinking that it might help if I could get through the pool of water quickly. We hit the puddle, and then suddenly the front end of the bike dipped forwards with a scary lurch. There’s a pothole under the puddle! I realised too late as the front wheel went in and hit the rim of the pothole on the other side. There was a bone-jarring impact that sent me reeling backwards, losing my grip on the handlebars.

  “Ooomph!” I tumbled off the bike and onto the towpath. The bicycle swerved sideways and toppled over, its wheels spinning crazily.

  “MEORRW!” came a wail from the cat carrier as it tipped out of the basket and landed with a crash. The latch on the door sprang open and Muesli rolled out.

  “Oh, God, Muesli!” I sat up. “Are you okay?”

  She gave me a frightened look, then turned and bolted down the towpath.

  “Hey, wait—Muesli!” I struggled to my feet and limped after her. “Come back!”

  Muesli shot down the towpath, farther down the river, and darted towards a line of bushes on the opposite side to the water.

  “Muesli! Come back!” I called.

  The little grey tabby ignored me. She dived into the nearest bush and disappeared. I arrived, panting, a moment later, and peered over the shrubbery. It seemed to be running along the back of a small residential development. A row of modern cottages sat primly in the centre of a neat semi-circle of landscaped garden, radiating suburban respectability. I bit my lip and scanned the area. Muesli was nowhere to be seen.

  Then I caught sight of a striped grey tail. It was flicking around the corner of a small stone building on the far side of the garden, away from the row of cottages. I pushed my way through the gap in the shrubbery and ran across the lawn towards the building. As I approached, I realised that it was also a cottage of sorts—but a very different one to the sleek modern developments on the other side of the manicured lawn. For one thing, it was old, the stone walls faded and worn, and the wooden window frames mottled with age. There were several slate tiles missing from the roof and the entire building looked as if it was leaning slightly to one side.

  It was also tiny; I doubted if it had more than one bedroom. It looked like it might have once been an outbuilding, perhaps—a little shed or hut that was part of a larger estate—and some effort had been made to convert it into a residence, but it was still very shabby. I was surprised that it had been left here, next to all those slick modern houses, but perhaps it sat on a vestige of land which had not been bought by the property developers.

  I walked around it until I came to the front door, which faced the other way, towards the river. To my pleasant surprise, Muesli was sitting on the front step, her tail tucked around her paws.

  “Meorrw!” she greeted me, her green eyes big and bright.

  I approached her cautiously, wondering if I could grab her before she bolted again. Then my attention was caught by something on the door. It was a sign. A sign with a familiar logo—the local real estate agent’s logo. I straightened, Muesli temporarily forgotten, as I saw the words next to the logo: “For Lease”.

  I felt a strange little tingle of excitement. I stepped back and looked up at the cottage again. A voice came suddenly from behind me, making me start.

  “You’re not thinking of renting that, are you?”

  I whirled around to find a middle-aged woman with an old-fashioned nylon shopping buggy standing a few yards behind me. She was peering at me curiously through wire-framed glasses.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Oh, only because we’d given it up for lost, really. Didn’t think anyone would ever want to rent it.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean? It’s in a fantastic location—why wouldn’t anyone want to rent it?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you hear the story? That great, big hoo-ha back in June last year? It was in all the local papers.”

  “I wasn’t in England back then,” I explained. “What happened?”

  “Last owner died in the house. Which isn’t unusual in itself—but there were some rumours about her death. Made a lot of people very uncomfortable. I live in the next development myself and I have to say, the whole thing made me nervous, I can tell you. Anyway, there was nothing proven, but since then they’ve struggled to rent it out again. Doesn’t help that it’s in a bit of a state.”

  “Is it in a terrible condition inside?”

  She gave the cottage an assessing look. “I think it just needs a good tidy-up really. Hasn’t been redecorated for decades, but the bones are pretty solid.”

  “Do you know what rent they’re asking for it?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember the exact figure—in fact, last I heard, they’d dropped it again. Getting desperate, I shouldn’t think. It’s been on the market for months now.” She shifted her shopping buggy. “Well, I’d better get on. That your cat?” She pointed suddenly.

  “Oh… yes, she’s mine,” I said, looking around at Muesli.

  “Cute wee thing. Acts like she lives there already.” The woman chuckled, then turned and walked off, pulling her shopping buggy behind her.

  I looked at Muesli thoughtfully, sitting just outside the front door of the cottage. Yes, she certainly did look like she lived here already. She stared back at me, her green eyes wide and her little whiskers quivering.

  “Meorrw…?” she said, tilting her head slightly.

  I hesitated. My eyes went back to the sign. Slowly, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but as I was about to start dialling, I stopped. I shook my head. I must be mad to even think it! The rents in this area, so close to the university city and next to the river, must be astronomical. There was no way I could afford a cottage here… I sighed and turned away.

  “Meorrw!” came an indignant little voice.

  I looked down. Muesli hadn’t budged from her position by the front door. She was looking up at me, her little face hopeful. I hesitated again. Surely, it didn’t hurt to ask? It was a long shot but…

  Making a sudden decision, I dialled the number. As the phone rang, I crossed my fingers and smiled at my cat.

  “What do you think, Muesli? Have you found our new home…?”

  FINIS

  Don’t miss Gemma’s (and Muesli’s) next adventure in:

  Muffins and Mourning Tea

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5)

  COMING SEP 2016!

  Sign up to my newsletter to be notified when it’s released (& get exclusive reader discounts, giveaways, sneak peeks and other book news): http://www.hyhanna.com/newsletter

  Have you read all the

  BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  A Scone To Die For

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)

  When an American tourist is murdered with a scone in Gemma Rose’s quaint Oxfordshire tearoom, she suddenly finds herself apron-deep in a mystery involving long-buried secrets from Oxford’s past.

  Armed with her insider knowledge of the University and with the help of four nosy old ladies from the village (not to mention a cheeky little tabby cat named Muesli), Gemma sets out to solve the mystery—all while dealing with her matchmaking mother and the return of her old college love, Devlin O’Connor, now a dashing CID detective.

  But with the body count rising and her business going bust, can Gemma find the killer before things turn to custard?

  READ NOW: AMAZON | AMAZON UK

  Tea with Milk and Murder

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2)

  While at an Oxford cocktail party, tearoom owner Gemma Rose overhears a
sinister conversation minutes before a University student is fatally poisoned. Could there be a connection? And could her best friend Cassie’s new boyfriend have anything to do with the murder?

  Gemma decides to start her own investigation, helped by the nosy ladies from her Oxfordshire village and her old college flame, CID detective Devlin O’Connor. But her mother is causing havoc at Gemma’s quaint English tearoom and her best friend is furious at her snooping… and this mystery is turning out to have more twists than a chocolate pretzel!

  Too late, Gemma realises that she could be the next item on the killer’s menu. Or will her little tabby cat, Muesli, save the day?

  READ NOW: AMAZON | AMAZON UK

  Two Down, Bun To Go

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 3)

  A sinister phone call in the middle of the night throws tearoom owner, Gemma Rose, straight into the heart of a new murder mystery—this time with her friend, Seth, arrested as the key suspect! The grisly killing in the cloisters of an old Oxford college points to a bitter feud within the University—but Gemma finds unexpected clues popping up in her tiny Cotswolds village.

  Meanwhile, her love life is in turmoil as Gemma struggles to decide between eminent doctor, Lincoln Green, and sexy CID detective, Devlin O’Connor… whilst her quaint English tearoom is in hot water as she struggles to find a new baking chef.

  With her exasperating mother and her mischievous little tabby cat, Muesli, driving her nutty as a fruitcake—and the nosy Old Biddies at her heels—Gemma must crack her toughest case yet if she is to save her friend from a life behind bars.