by H. Y. Hanna
In the “old days”, notes left in people’s pigeonholes were the quickest ways of reaching them, better even than leaving a note under their bedroom door. After all, you might not return to your room during the day, especially if it was situated at the top of four flights of stairs at the far end of college, but you always passed by the front entrance several times a day and it became routine to pop into the Porter’s Lodge and check your pigeonhole regularly.
I’d always thought that this quaint old system would be killed off—what with instant messaging apps and emails—but looking at the wads of paper and envelopes bursting from several pigeonholes, I was pleased to see that it hadn’t been abandoned. I scanned the wooden compartments, reading the names on each label. They were arranged in alphabetical order and I found “Prof Q. Barrow” easily—one of the pigeonholes on the top row. I glanced quickly around, then stretched up on tiptoe and pulled the sheaf of papers out of the compartment.
There were two stamped envelopes, a photocopy of a journal article, a flyer from the Oxford Past Times Society, and a folded piece of notepaper. I unfolded the latter and instantly recognised Seth’s illegible scrawl. I shoved it into my pocket, returned the rest to the pigeonhole, and hurried back out of the Lodge.
And not a moment too soon. I saw that familiar figure in the peaked cap coming back across the quad. Quickly, I stepped behind the group of students, keeping them between me and the policeman as he walked past. I slipped around to the other side and began to walk away as nonchalantly as I could. I had just begun to relax when I heard the voice behind me.
“Excuse me, miss…”
I faltered and turned slowly around to find the constable walking towards me.
“Yes?” My voice came out in a squeak and I hastily cleared my throat.
“You a student here?” he said, coming closer.
I swallowed. Should I lie to the police? The answer was out before I realised it.
“Yes, I am.”
I held my breath. If he asked me to produce my university card, I was stuffed. I did actually have my old university card in my wallet but a quick glance would show that I wasn’t a member of Wadsworth and even wishful thinking couldn’t make me look like the photo of my fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old self.
“Can you tell me if there’s another way into the Cloisters from here?”
I relaxed slightly. “No, there’s only one way in and out of the Cloisters. You have to go through this quad and the smaller Yardley Quad, around the Walled Garden and then through a tunnel at the back of the library.”
The constable scratched his head and gestured to the side of the quad we were standing in. “But… aren’t the Cloisters just on the other side of this wall here? So aren’t you doubling back on yourself? Isn’t there a cut through?”
I shrugged. “Not that I know of. It is a bit of a roundabout route but that’s the way the college was built.”
“Righto,” he said, making some notes on his pad. “And aside from the back gate by the student staircases, is there another way out of the college?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t lie about this. “Yes, there is another gate. It’s in the Walled Garden. It’s a wooden door that leads into Gloucester College.”
“Ah…” He wrote busily in his notebook, then gave me a nod. “Cheers.”
He turned away and headed back into the Lodge. I hesitated. I should have taken this opportunity to escape, but curiosity was killing me now. What on earth had happened?
I drifted towards the student group again and gently tapped the arm of a freckle-faced youth.
“What’s going on? Why are the police here?” I asked.
“Oh, hadn’t you heard?” He giggled drunkenly. “There’s been a murder in the Cloisters!”
I stared at him incredulously. “A what?”
“Old Barrow’s come to a sticky end,” said another boy next to him, with more glee than sorrow. I guess Professor Barrow hadn’t been particularly popular with the students.
The first boy nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. “And they got the killer too! Caught him red-handed, apparently. Some young don over from Gloucester—”
“No…” I said faintly, a horrible suspicion beginning to dawn on me.
“Oh, there’s no doubt,” said the boy with relish. “The head porter found him standing over the prof’s body, holding the knife and covered in blood.”
A girl squealed in the group and leaned over to join the conversation. “Is it true? Is it Dr Browning over at Gloucester? Fancy that! I’ve had tutorials with him. I never thought he’d be the type.”
“Wait… No… this can’t be right,” I said desperately. “There must have been some mistake.”
The freckle-faced boy looked at me solemnly. “There’s no mistake. Professor Barrow was stabbed through the neck and killed. The police have arrested Seth Browning for murder.”
CHAPTER TWO
The little Cotswolds village of Meadowford-on-Smythe looked picturesque and welcoming despite the grey wintry morning. The rows of thatched cottages, huddled together against the sharp wind, were silhouetted gently against the rolling hills in the distance and a flock of geese flew slowly past the church steeple, an elegant V in the grey skies.
In fact, everything looked so reassuringly normal—from the groups of tourists already bustling down the village high street, peering eagerly into the antique shops and craft stores, to old Mrs Stanton going past on her bicycle, her little Scottie dog riding proudly in the front wicker basket as usual—that I wondered if I might have dreamt everything the night before. It seemed too incredible to believe that I had spent an hour creeping about an Oxford college in the middle of the night, only to discover that my friend, Seth, had been arrested for murder.
Then I stepped away from my tearoom window and glanced down at the mobile phone I held in my hands. It was there on the screen, the record of Seth’s call at 2:03 a.m., sharp and clear in the cold light of day. I hadn’t imagined it. And of course, there was that note I had removed from Professor Barrow’s pigeonhole…
I had read the note as soon as I got home but the contents had left me none the wiser. Seth had seemed to be referring to some project by the Domus Trust… I vaguely remembered hearing of them—weren’t they a charity that helped the homeless?—and his tone had been uncharacteristically aggressive. One line in particular jumped out at me: “You had better change your mind about things or I’ll make sure you’re sorry.” He must have been joking, I thought, but you could almost take that the wrong way. I wondered what had happened to prompt Seth to write a note like that.
It didn’t take a genius, though, to work out why he had asked me to get hold of the note. It was the worst kind of incriminating evidence. The one time you don’t want to be writing a threatening message to a man is when he turns up dead, brutally murdered.
And what about me? By helping Seth remove the note so the police couldn’t find it, wasn’t I breaking the law too? Being an accessory to murder or something like that?
I set my lips. I don’t care. Seth was my friend; I knew he hadn’t murdered anyone and I’d have done anything to help him. Besides, if it came out, I could always argue that I hadn’t known about the note’s relevance when I was sent to get it—which was the truth.
But it wasn’t going to come out.
No one had seen me remove the note and no one need ever know. Carefully, I cleared my call register and deleted all records of Seth’s call.
I was so immersed in my thoughts that I almost missed the tinkling of the bells attached to the front door, announcing the arrival of new customers to the tearoom. It was a group of Japanese tourists, jabbering excitedly, cameras at the ready as they stared around in admiration. One Japanese lady pointed at the exposed dark wooden beams and the whitewashed walls, and said something to the others, who all smiled in delight.
“Hello! Welcome to the Little Stables Tearoom!” I hurried over to seat them. “Would you like some morning tea?”
I hesitated, then made a bow in return.
They bowed again.
“Uh… why don’t you sit down?” I said hastily, ushering them to a nearby table.
“Hai! Arigato!” They chattered excitedly as they settled themselves. Then one of them saw the inglenook fireplace in the corner and gave a cry of delight. Instantly, five cameras began clicking away like machine guns.
The first lady turned to me and said slowly, “Is… Old Engulish? King Henry?” She pointed around the tearoom’s interior.
I was puzzled for a moment, then my face brightened. “Oh! Oh yes, this was a Tudor inn. Yes, that’s right. A bit older than Henry VIII, actually. I believe it was built in 1489 or something like that.”
“Ahhh…” She turned to the others and let out a stream of rapid Japanese.
I laid the menus on the table in front of them and said with a smile, “Everything we serve is also ‘old English’—traditional cakes and buns which are made the same way they have always been for hundreds of years.”
They examined the menu eagerly. Then the first lady turned back to me and said, “Ano… Engulish scone… and jam? Daisuki desu!” She beamed at me.
“You would like scones with jam?”
The others nodded eagerly.
“And would you like some clotted cream as well? That’s how we eat proper English scones—with home-made jam and lovely clotted cream.”
They furrowed their brows. “Clot cream?”
“It’s a type of thick cream that’s made by heating milk using steam and then leaving it to cool. You get this lovely rich cream which rises to the top and clings together and that’s what you skim off…” I could see that they weren’t following me so I tried again: “It’s like whipped cream meets butter… very delicious!”
“Ahh!” Smiles spread around the table.
One of the women nearest me tugged my sleeve and said shyly, “Earl Grey, onegaishimasu?”
I smiled. “Of course. Earl Grey’s my favourite tea too.”
I took their orders for a plate of warm scones with jam and clotted cream, some hot buttered crumpets, a few slices of Madeira cake, and a large pot of Earl Grey tea to share. Then I was rushing to seat the next lot of tourists who walked wide-eyed into the tearoom, sniffing appreciatively.
It looked like it was going to be another busy day. It was barely ten minutes since we opened, but already tourists and locals alike were beating a path to the door. I felt a swell of pride. I might have only started four months ago but my tearoom was gaining a reputation as the place to go for delicious traditional British baking and proper English tea. It made my crazy impulse to give up my high-flying job and come back to run a tearoom in this little village seem worthwhile after all.
Oh, things had been tough at first, especially when an American tourist was found murdered within a few weeks of the tearoom’s opening, with one of my scones shoved down his throat. I still winced when I thought about it. But since that mystery had been solved, things had gone from strength to strength. The Christmas season had been happily hectic and now, even though we were well into January, it didn’t look like business was slowing down.
I felt a hopeful excitement stir in me. Even after increasing my friend Cassie’s wages and dealing with the tearoom’s expenses, I was starting to save up a nice little nest egg from the profits—which might have a chance of becoming a real “nest” at last! I’d been forced to move back with my parents when I returned to England, so I could pour all my savings into the tearoom, but after four months of living back home again, I was ready to put my head in the tearoom oven. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’m really thankful to have a place to stay—but there is such a thing as living too close to your parents. Especially when your mother was like my mother.
So I’d been looking at my bank account recently and eyeing the rental listings in the local papers with anticipation. If things continued like this…
Then I remembered something and came back down to earth with a thump. When I had lost my first chef, my mother had kindly stepped into the breach, and while her baking was absolutely divine, I’d always known that this was only a temporary solution. It wasn’t fair to expect my mother to slave away in a tearoom kitchen all day, no matter how much she claimed to enjoy it. I would have to start looking for a permanent baking chef sooner or later. In fact, I’d put an advert into the papers last week and had a few interviews lined up.
Of course, there was always the option of me or Cassie putting on the chef’s hat and giving it a try… I glanced doubtfully across the room at the pretty, raven-haired girl serving at the tables. My best friend, Cassie, was a struggling artist who had happily dumped her other part-time jobs to join me full-time in the tearoom when I started. But while she could paint like a dream, charm customers with a smile, and wait on tables with a skill and grace that was mesmerising to watch, baking was one talent Cassie didn’t possess.
As for me, I had been trying to learn but my efforts were hit-and-miss at best. Ask me to coordinate a multi-media global marketing campaign for an international corporation and I’ll do it with ease, but producing an edible cheesecake was something else entirely. Besides, someone had to remain out here in the dining room, manning the cash register and looking after the customers…
I sighed. I knew in my heart that the extra money should really go towards hiring a full-time chef. Didn’t they say you should always re-invest profits back into your business first? I gave another wistful sigh. My little nest would have to wait.
The front door’s bells tinkled again and I glanced up automatically. Four little old ladies bustled in, taking off their scarves and mittens. There was a time when my heart would have sunk at seeing Mabel Cooke and her friends, Glenda Bailey, Florence Doyle, and Ethel Webb, come into the tearoom. Known affectionately as the “Old Biddies”, they were your typical meddling old ladies with far too much time on their hands and far too much interest in other people’s business. All retired and in their eighties now, they also had a taste for detective novels and were all too ready to jump orthotics-first into any murder investigation they could find.
So far, their efforts at amateur sleuthing had been more hassle than help and usually got me embroiled in all sorts of trouble, but I had to admit that their network of community intel—otherwise known as local gossip—was pretty impressive. There was very little that didn’t reach Mabel Cooke’s ears and the police would have done well to have her as an informant.
Still, in spite of their meddling, I’d come to appreciate the Old Biddies. They were like the bossy, eccentric, exasperating great aunts I had never had. I knew they meant well and, to be honest, it was nice to feel someone cared about you. I was incredibly touched recently when they stepped in to help me wait at the tables during a really busy time, and since then, we had evolved a sort of unofficial arrangement where they helped out whenever they were free.
They wouldn’t take any payment for their efforts, no matter how much I begged—insisting that they had spare time and enjoyed “feeling useful”—so in the end, all I could offer in return was a table at the tearoom any time they liked and to help themselves from the menu.
To be honest, I think the Old Biddies secretly enjoyed serving customers and having the chance to gossip with locals and tourists alike. They treated the tearoom as their little headquarters in Meadowford-on-Smythe and hardly a day passed without them popping in. Now, they helped themselves to a few things from the kitchen, then settled at their usual table by the windows. A few minutes later, however, they waved me frantically over. I arrived to find a plate of dainty finger sandwiches in front of them. They were examining the fillings like archaeologists poring over an excavation.
“Have you been changing the tearoom menu?” Mabel eyed me suspiciously.
“Yes, I’ve made some new additions,” I admitted.
Mabel’s chest swelled indignantly. “When you re-ope
ned this tearoom, Gemma, we thought you would be serving good, wholesome, English food. It’s about time somebody showed an appreciation for proper British cooking. But then we come in this morning and we see this!” She jabbed a finger to the menu in front of her.
I looked down. She was pointing to the “Tea Sandwiches” section of the menu, which listed a selection of traditional finger sandwiches such as English cucumber, smoked salmon, watercress, and creamy egg salad.
“Fresh dill and crème fraiche? Multigrain bread? In a cucumber sandwich?” Mabel’s voice rose with added outrage at each word. She wagged her finger at me. “I’ll have you know, miss, that a proper English cucumber sandwich is made with plain butter on white bread with the crusts cut off and nothing else! What on earth were you thinking?”
“Well… I thought it would be nice to have a modern variation with more flavour…” My voice trailed off under that incredulous glare.
“I suppose you learned this sort of nonsense in Australia?” Mabel gave a contemptuous sniff. “I hear that the cafés and restaurants there are full of fused cooking.”
I hid a smile. “I think you mean fusion cuisine.”
Mabel sniffed again. “I suppose one can’t expect much from a nation of convicts.”
I think in Mabel’s mind, everyone in Australia still walked around in striped pyjamas, dragging a ball and chain attached to their ankles.
I started to protest, then had a better idea. Now that I knew the Old Biddies better, I had my own ammunition. I looked at her slyly. “The Queen’s Birthday is a public holiday there, you know,” I said.
Mabel gave a gratified smile. “Is it really? Well! It’s good to know that these colonies still show proper respect for the monarchy. Hmm… perhaps there is hope for them after all.” She looked back down at the plate of sandwiches and her scowl returned. “But these modern monstrosities have to go.”
She looked to the others for agreement. Ethel and Glenda nodded but Florence, who was plump and loved her food, took a bite of the offending sandwich and chewed thoughtfully, then said:
