by H. Y. Hanna
“Well, actually, I think it’s jolly delicious. Not like a proper, old-fashioned cucumber sandwich, mind, but Gemma is right—the herbs and crème fraiche do give it a lovely flavour and the cucumber is just so crisp and fresh against the buttered bread…”
Mabel glared at her but Florence remained stubbornly unmoved, helping herself to another dainty triangle of thinly sliced bread and cucumbers. Mabel looked as if she would say something else, then she paused as if remembering something and turned suddenly to me.
“Now, Gemma, what’s this I hear about your friend, Seth, being arrested for murder?”
I stared at her. Mabel’s ability to always know things never failed to astound me.
“How did you know about that? It only happened in the early hours of this morning—it’s not even on the internet yet.”
Mabel waved a dismissive hand. “Pah, internet. Susan Bromley, who is on the church floral committee with me, has a neighbour whose niece works part-time in the kitchens at Wadsworth, and she told her aunt who told Susan who told Mrs Sutton down at the post office while she was having her hair done—Susan, I mean, not Mrs Sutton—and Mrs Sutton told me when we popped into the post office this morning to collect our pensions.”
I blinked. I’d lost her somewhere between Susan Bromley’s neighbour and Mrs Sutton’s hair.
“Yes, but it’s all a terrible mistake,” I said. “Seth would never murder anybody!”
“Have you spoken to Seth himself?” asked Ethel, her eyes wide with concern. The quietest of the Old Biddies, Ethel was a lovely gentle soul who used to be the librarian at the village library.
“No, I haven’t managed to speak to him. He’s in custody, the police have confiscated his mobile, and they wouldn’t let me talk to him.”
I wondered if the police knew that Seth had managed to speak to me last night. He must have somehow convinced them that he was ringing his solicitor—you were entitled to a private call for legal advice. I hoped that meant that no one had eavesdropped on our conversation or checked the number he’d called. The last thing I needed was for the police to arrive on my doorstep demanding to know what Seth had asked me to do for him at 2 a.m. in the morning.
“We heard it was a very brutal murder,” said Glenda with a shiver. “One of the Oxford college dons, wasn’t it? What was his name—Professor Burrows or something like that?”
I almost corrected her, then I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to know the details. The only reason I knew so much was because I had been at Wadsworth myself and had spoken to those students.
“Is that what happened?” I said, opening my eyes wide. “How horrible!”
Mabel looked at me shrewdly and I wondered if my show of surprise had been a bit overdone.
I rushed on, “How was he killed?”
“He was stabbed,” said Glenda. “With an ice pick!”
“No, I heard it was a bread knife,” said Florence.
“Oh no, it was a knitting needle!” said Ethel.
“No, no, you’ve all got it wrong,” said Mabel impatiently. “It was a dagger. An Egyptian dagger. I know because Susan Bromley told me herself when I saw her outside the post office. Her neighbour’s niece said the police were questioning all the staff about it, asking if any of them had seen it before.”
“Well, Seth certainly doesn’t own any Egyptian daggers,” I declared. “So if that was the murder weapon, it’s proof that it can’t have been him—”
“Ah, but it could have been borrowed or stolen from its owner,” Mabel pointed out. “And Seth was the one found holding it.”
“He must have had a good reason for that,” I said quickly. “Do they know who owns the dagger? An Egyptian dagger is pretty unusual. Surely, it would be fairly easy to find the owner.”
They shook their heads.
“Do you know why Seth was in Wadsworth last night?” asked Glenda.
“No, I… I didn’t speak to him last night. I knew nothing about this, really, until you told me.”
“If you didn’t know all this, how did you know that Seth was arrested?” said Mabel suddenly.
“Oh, um…” I scrambled for an answer. “His… his solicitor rang me this morning and told me.”
“Ah, we thought… since you have a special friend in the CID…” Glenda gave me a coy smile. “Perhaps Detective Inspector O’Connor might have told you.”
I blushed slightly and was annoyed with myself. “No, Devlin doesn’t talk about his work. And besides, I’ve hardly seen him,” I said, trying not to sound petulant.
It was actually a bit of a sore point with me. Devlin O’Connor and I went back a long way—all the way back to our student days, when we had been at Oxford together. Devlin had been the first man I ever loved—okay, he might have been the only man I ever loved—but he was also the man whose marriage proposal I’d turned down. What can I say? I was young and impressionable at the time and I’d believed everyone when they told me that the rebellious youth with his fierce blue eyes and working-class background was the wrong man for a nice girl from a proper, upper-middle-class family like me. We were too different, they said. We could never be happy. Those kinds of crazy romances only worked in novels, not in reality. And I’d always been the dutiful type, brought up to “do the right thing”…
Except that eight years of doing “the right thing” and fulfilling society’s expectations had left me miserable and frustrated. And lonely. Sometimes, when my defences were down, I’d let myself look back and wonder how things might have been different if I had only said “Yes” that day when Devlin had presented me with that simple engagement ring he had worked so hard to afford…
When I’d come back to England and discovered that Devlin was now a top detective with the Oxfordshire CID, it had been a shock to say the least. A shock to see those piercing blue eyes and lean handsome face again, to feel that special, silent bond that had always existed between us. He had matured into a cool, enigmatic man, the wild, rebellious spirit now carefully contained, but still I had caught glimpses of the boy I had once loved. And somehow, despite the hurt and years that had built a wall between us, working on two murder cases together had brought us close again and I had found myself wondering if we might have a second chance...
Well, I was still wondering.
After the last case had been solved, Devlin had asked me out on a date and I’d tentatively agreed. Dinner and a night at the ballet had seemed like the perfect way to test the relationship waters again—but a rape out in Cowley had brought that to a grinding halt. Devlin had had to cancel that date, plus the three others afterwards. Homicide, serious assault, aggravated robbery… honestly, it was as if every bloody criminal in Oxford conspired to keep us apart by planning their crimes for our date nights! And then, just as Christmas was approaching, a cold case was re-opened in Devlin’s old department up in Yorkshire and he was called back north. That was the last I’d seen of him in three weeks.
I know, I know, it’s the nature of his work and if I was going to fall in love with a detective, this came with the territory. These men were dedicated and driven, working crazy hours in the quest for justice. I knew the last few months had probably been unusually bad and, in any case, I’d been madly busy myself with holiday season at the tearoom, but still, I couldn’t help feeling just a little bit peeved.
So when Devlin had finally come back to Oxfordshire last week and rung me up, I’d been pretty cool in my reception. I was wary now of getting too excited over any idea of a date with him. In fact, we were supposed to meet up tonight, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
“So will you be seeing Inspector O’Connor any time soon?” said Mabel, breaking into my thoughts.
“Yes, tonight—” I broke off. Bugger. I’d answered without thinking. Now Mabel would be pumping me for information on the murder tomorrow. As far she was concerned, I was an unofficial channel into the secrets of the Oxfordshire CID.
Well, maybe she was right. What was the point of having a de
tective boyfriend if you didn’t get some perks?
CHAPTER THREE
The bells tinkled again and I glanced over to see an elegant middle-aged woman step into the tearoom. I recognised her instantly as my mother’s closest friend: Helen Green. I hurried towards her.
“Gemma! Lovely to see you, dear.” She came towards me and gave me a light peck on the cheek, enveloping me in a cloud of discreet perfume.
Like my mother, Helen Green always looked as if she was on her way to an audience with the Queen, her grey hair carefully coiffured, an elegant necklace of pearls around her neck, and a cream cashmere twinset peeking out from beneath her classic camel coat. She pulled off her leather gloves and said to me, “I was hoping to have a word with your mother, dear. Is she in the kitchen?”
As if hearing her name, the door to the kitchen swung open and my mother sailed out, resplendent in a wool crepe dress with a large sterling silver brooch and a 1950s-style frilly apron. How she managed to stay looking so glamorous and immaculate while baking in the kitchen was a mystery to me.
“Oh Helen, I’ve just booked it! We leave on Monday!” my mother beamed at her friend.
I looked at my mother in confusion. “Booked what, Mother? Where are you going?”
“To Borobudur, darling.”
I stared at her. “To where?”
“Borobudur! It’s a Mahayana Buddhist Temple in Magelang.”
“Where on earth is that?”
My mother looked smug. “In Central Java, darling.”
“Central Java… you mean, Indonesia?”
“Yes, Borobudur is the world’s largest Buddhist monument and one of the original Seven Wonders of the World!” my mother said excitedly. “You can climb all the way to the top and watch the sun rise over the stupas and there are five hundred and four Buddha statues across the hilltop. Or was it five hundred and five? Anyway, it’s really just the most marvellous design! Only imagine, they built it 1,200 years ago without any cement or mortar—it’s just like a set of giant interlocking Lego blocks held together without any glue!”
“Uh… that sounds wonderful,” I said warily. “But why all this sudden interest in Buddhist temples, Mother? You’ve never said anything about wanting to visit Indonesia before.”
“Oh, it’s the deal of the week on Lastminute.com, darling!” my mother said. “And if you book by this weekend, they’ll throw in a trip to a batik factory for half price!”
Oh God. My mother’s recent passion for online shopping had mutated into an obsessive interest in travel sites. I’d thought that it was mostly window shopping—you know, we all do that: look longingly at places we’d love to travel to and check out airfares and hotel options just for fun—but I never thought that she’d seriously book anything. After all, my parents’ idea of travel usually involved sedate weekends visiting art galleries and museums in Paris or Rome, not traipsing off to the outer wilds of Southeast Asia. I guess I was wrong.
“What about Dad?” I said. “Are you sure he’s happy for you to go?”
“Well, I did try to persuade your father to come with but he’s only interested in his silly cricket,” my mother complained. “Besides, he left for Cape Town this morning with some of his old Eton chums to watch the South Africa vs. England test match and you know he won’t be back for a week at least. So I thought… why not just go by ourselves? Like that film, you know, Thelma & Linda—”
“Louise,” I muttered.
“—Helen thought it was a wonderful idea!”
Helen Green nodded and said eagerly, “We can even visit Krakatoa! You can do it as a day trip from Jakarta. It’s still active, you know, and they say it can blow at any time! And the water in the sea around is boiling hot and the sand too hot to even stand on.”
My mother gave a delicious shudder. “Oh, how absolutely frightful! I can hardly wait, Helen!”
I stared at the two of them in bewilderment. Was this some kind of weird mid-life crisis thing? Maybe my mother shouldn’t have stopped her HRT. Since when had two conservative British middle-class housewives become so bloodthirsty for danger and excitement?
“Er… Mother, you know Krakatoa is a volcanic island in the sea off the coast of Java?” I said. “And nobody wants to go to Jakarta now if they can help it! There was that warning on the BBC saying it’s officially an area of ‘high threat for terrorist attacks’ and they think—”
“Oh, nonsense, darling,” my mother said. “You’re worrying too much. I’m sure we’ll be fine. We don’t want to go to mosques or anything—we’re just going to take a boat out to see a volcano.”
“But Mother—”
“Do you think our Samsonite cases will do, Helen? Perhaps we should get one of those ‘knapsack’ things,” said my mother, frowning.
“They would fit better on the fishing boat,” agreed Helen. “I read that you can carry a third of your body weight in your knapsack.”
“Really?” said my mother in delight. “That would be so helpful. I have to take my electric toothbrush and my Crabtree & Evelyn soap, of course. Oh, and a pair of nice shoes. And maybe some Tupperware containers just in case? The memory foam neck pillow for the plane—but that should squash down, I think. And what about some lavender sachets to keep things smelling fresh?”
I had a sudden vision of my mother and Helen Green staggering around Indonesia with matching Harrods knapsacks on their shoulders.
“Mother, I really don’t think this is a good idea. I mean, you’ve never done ‘independent travel’ before—it’s very different, you know. It’s rougher and dirtier and much harder work. I don’t think you really understand… and besides, Southeast Asia probably isn’t the best place to start for two… uh… mature ladies like you and Aunt Helen. Aren’t there any Lastminute.com deals for Paris?” I asked desperately.
“Oh, Paris is boring.” My mother gave a disdainful sniff. “Who wants to go to Paris when you can go to Jakarta?”
Lots of people. People who don’t want to be killed in terrorist bombings or blown up in a volcano, I thought.
“Now, darling,” my mother continued blithely. “Don’t you worry about the tearoom. I’ll make up several batches of scone dough and put them in the fridge. That should keep you going for a day or two. And some shortbread and Chelsea buns too. And I’ll leave the recipes for the other things. It’s very easy. You just have to follow the instructions.”
I sighed and gave up. “Okay, Mother. Thanks for doing that. Shall I drop you and Aunt Helen at the airport? The tearoom’s closed on Mondays, so I’ll be free.”
“Oh no, we’re taking the express coach from the bus station! Just like all the other ‘real’ travellers,” my mother said proudly.
“Besides, you’ll probably be busy getting your hair done or something for Monday night,” said Helen with a smile. “I’m so delighted that you’re going with Lincoln to the Oxford Society of Medicine dinner, Gemma.”
“I… I am?” I stared at her in surprise. It was the first I’d heard of it. I gave my mother a suspicious look.
“Oh yes, darling, remember I told you?” said my mother airily. “I was chatting with Helen the other day and she told me that Lincoln is the keynote speaker at the Oxford Society of Medicine dinner this term. Isn’t that such an honour? I knew you’d want to be there.”
Grrr. She had told me nothing of the kind. My mother was obviously up to her match-making tricks again. Lincoln was Helen’s son and if betrothal contracts were still in place, my mother would have had us engaged from birth. Ever since I’d returned to England, she had been doing everything in her power to throw us together. I suppose she thought if she pretended that I’d already accepted Lincoln’s invitation, I couldn’t back out.
It was on the tip of my tongue to snap a refusal, then I saw the expression on Helen’s face. Irritation warred with compassion in my heart and compassion won.
“Oh… er… yes, that’s right… I… er… I’d forgotten,” I said. I gave Helen a wan smile. “I’m really
looking forward to it.”
“You know, he’s so fond of you, Gemma,” said Helen with a meaningful look.
My smile felt frozen on my face. “Um… yes, I… I’m very fond of Lincoln too.”
Thankfully, my mother suddenly remembered a new recipe she wanted to show Helen and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen. I took a deep breath and tried to lower my blood pressure again. Cassie joined me at the counter and I started to complain about my mother’s meddling, but paused as I saw the strained expression on her face.
“Have you heard back from that lawyer yet?” she asked.
“No.” I frowned. I’d called Seth’s family solicitor this morning and he had given me the name of the criminal lawyer that he had passed Seth on to. According to him, the man was the best in Oxford and I’d felt a childlike hope that the whole nightmare would be over soon. But when I’d rung the number, it was to find a frustratingly indifferent receptionist at the other end of the line, who informed me in a cool, blank voice that Mr Sexton was out at a meeting and unavailable. I had hoped that meant he was at the police station sorting things out for Seth and had to be content with leaving him a message. It was a bit worrying that he hadn’t rung me back yet…
“I’ll try him again now,” I said.
I managed to get through to Mr Sexton this time but if I’d been hoping for some reassurance, I was sorely disappointed. In fact, I felt a prickle of annoyance at the lawyer’s off-hand manner.
“Yes, I went to see Mr Browning at the station this morning.” He made a tutting sound. “Really, a very bad state of affairs…”
My heart sank at his tone. Somehow, I had still been clinging to the hope that he would say it was all a misunderstanding, something easily fixed.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Well, considering that Mr Browning was found holding the murder weapon, covered in the victim’s blood, and there are witness reports of a violent confrontation earlier that evening…”
