by H. Y. Hanna
“A what? What violent confrontation? What are you talking about?”
“Apparently Mr Browning and Professor Barrow were involved in a heated argument over dinner and things became quite unpleasant. Threats were made, a glass of wine was thrown in Professor Barrow’s face, I believe, and they had to be separated. There were further altercations in the S.C.R.—the Senior Common Room—afterwards… It seems that they almost came to blows.” He made that irritating tutting sound again. “I have advised Mr Browning that in a case such as this, pleading guilty might be the best option. I would then be able to direct my efforts towards negotiating a more lenient sentence. Perhaps manslaughter or—”
“What? You can’t be serious! You know Seth didn’t murder anyone! You’re his lawyer! You’re supposed to be helping to release him, not helping the police convict him!”
Too late, I realised that I was shouting in my indignation. The entire tearoom was staring at me, including the Old Biddies with beady-eyed interest. Cassie looked horrified. I flushed and turned my back to the room, lowering my voice and saying urgently, “Surely there must be other suspects? I mean, there will be a proper investigation, won’t there?”
“Well, naturally… The inquest is being held on Monday but it will be immediately adjourned, of course, and I believe the police are pursuing several lines of enquiry. But I must tell you, young lady, that very few cases look as incriminating as this.” He cleared his throat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work still to attend to.”
“But what about Seth? What are you doing for him?”
“I am preparing a case for his defence,” he said testily. “I shall be in touch with Mr Browning again as soon as I have something more concrete to discuss. At this juncture, there is little else I can do but wait for the police to proceed with their investigation. The date for the court trial has not yet been set. However, I have managed to persuade the police to agree to release Seth on bail. Pending any other new developments, he should be released tomorrow afternoon. And now, I really must bid you good day.”
I hung up and lowered the phone. “Miserable old git,” I muttered.
“What?” said Cassie, her eyes wide with concern. “What did he say?”
I glanced back at the tables, where several customers were still eyeing us curiously, and dragged Cassie into the little shop area adjoining the tearoom, where we sold English tea paraphernalia and Oxford souvenirs. I shut the glass door behind us. We could talk in private here.
I turned to my friend and said with a shrug, “Nothing much. To be honest with you, he doesn’t seem that interested in helping Seth. He sounds like some stuffy old solicitor who just wants the easiest way out. He wants Seth to plead guilty so he can negotiate a lesser charge.”
“But that’s bollocks!” Cassie cried. “Why should Seth plead guilty when he’s innocent? Besides, even if he gets a lesser conviction, it’s still years in jail and a criminal record that will dog him for the rest of his life. Seth’s career at Oxford, his whole life, will be destroyed!”
I was surprised by her passionate reaction. Cassie had the typical artist’s fiery, volatile temperament, but this seemed excessive, even for her. She looked almost close to tears. I put a hand gently on her shoulder.
“The police will be conducting an investigation,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll find other suspects… and eventually they’ll find the real murderer.”
“Eventually isn’t good enough for Seth,” said Cassie fiercely. “And you know what the police are like! That solicitor isn’t the only one who wants the easy way out. They’ve got the perfect culprit handed to them on a plate: a suspect with a previous history of aggression towards the victim, found holding the murder weapon next to the body… why would they bother trying to find anyone else?”
“I’m sure they’ll investigate thoroughly,” I said lamely.
“No, they won’t! They don’t really care about Seth, like we do. He’s just a statistic to them.” Cassie gripped my arm. “You have to do it, Gemma!”
“Me? Do what?”
“Find the real killer!” Cassie’s grip tightened. “You’ve done it twice already. Both times, you put together the pieces and solved the mystery well ahead of the police—”
“Well, that’s not really true,” I protested. “Devlin is a shrewd investigator. He would have worked things out—”
“Devlin! That’s it! You’re seeing him tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“You need to find out everything about the case from him!”
“He might not be assigned to the case.”
“He’s CID! Even if he’s not the lead officer on the case, he’ll be able to get all the intel on the investigation.”
I stared at her. “You mean… you want him to feed us information?”
“Why not? He knows Seth is innocent, just as we do! He’s just helping to prevent an innocent man from being wrongfully convicted.” Cassie gave me a look. “Besides, Gemma, you know he has a soft spot for you… he’ll do it for you…”
“Well… uh…” I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure Devlin would see it like that. He can’t just share confidential information with me because we… uh… um… and the suspect is my friend.”
“Why not?” demanded Cassie. “What’s the point of having a boyfriend in the CID if you can’t use him when you need it?”
Okay, so I’d had the same thought myself earlier, but I’d been joking, really. Somehow, the way Cassie said it now made me uncomfortable. For one thing, Devlin wasn’t the kind of man you could ever imagine “using” in any way.
“Cassie, what you’re suggesting is sort of like nepotism,” I said uneasily. “Devlin is bound by a code of ethics and—”
“Rubbish! Do you think everybody is all high and noble and just follows the rules? Don’t be a bloody idiot!” Cassie’s dark eyes flashed. “It’s all still an ‘old boys club’ and it’s all about who you know. People doing each other favours behind closed doors, people giving special treatment to those they have a connection with—”
“Yes, but—”
“Look, Gemma, do you care about Seth or not?” she demanded.
“Of course, I care! But—”
“Well, if you really cared, then you’ll do whatever it takes. You wouldn’t give a toss about being all bloody ethical and noble. And you’d make Devlin help you.”
“I—” I stared into Cassie’s pleading eyes. “Okay, I’ll speak to him tonight.”
Cassie is right, I thought. We should have been using every advantage we had to help Seth—and besides, I’m sure the whole ethics thing wouldn’t be an issue. Devlin knew as well as I did that Seth was innocent and I was sure he would jump to help him.
I thought of our date tonight with eager anticipation. Aside from getting to spend some time together at last (would we finally have our first kiss?), I knew Devlin would fix everything for Seth.
CHAPTER FOUR
After a hectic day, the crowds finally started to thin out towards the end of the afternoon. I could see that my mother was desperate to get back home and start packing for her trip, so I suggested that she leave early. We had all the baking we needed for the day anyway.
As the hands of the clock ticked towards five o’clock and closing time, I began drifting around the tables, making sure that they were clean and resetting them for the next day. Cassie was serving one of our few remaining customers over in the corner and I didn’t think we’d get any more before closing. The fog was returning, draping like a damp, cold blanket over the village high street, and most people were eager to head for the dry warmth of their home or hotel rooms.
As I was clearing the table by the front window, I glanced out and saw a middle-aged woman standing on the street outside the tearoom. She seemed to be reading the menu outside of the door, her eyes lingering wistfully over the entries. I hurried to the front door and pushed it open, leaning out to greet her.
“We’re not close
d yet,” I said with a smile. “Why don’t you come in and look at the menu inside so you’re not out in the cold?”
She flushed and her eyes slid away from mine. “Don’t have enough cash on me,” she said gruffly.
“Oh, that’s no problem. We take credit cards and debit cards too…” I started to say, then trailed off as I realised what she was really saying.
My eyes took in the shabby tweed fabric of her coat, the thin cheeks and hollow eyes. There was a button missing from her coat and her shoes were faded and scuffed. She was clutching the edges of the coat tight around her, shivering slightly in the gathering mist.
“You can have a scone and a cup of tea for £2,” I said impulsively.
She stiffened and raised her chin. “I don’t need your charity,” she said coldly.
“Oh, it’s not charity! We’re having a special at the moment,” I said blithely. “‘Tea for Two’, see? It’s a… a sort of end-of-day special, so that we can clear our supplies for the day.”
“Oh…” I saw her eyes go hungrily to the menu again.
I pushed the door of the tearoom open wider and a gust of warm air carrying the fragrant smell of fresh baking wafted out.
“Come on in,” I urged her. “It’ll be nice to get out of the cold for a bit.”
Almost against her will, the woman let me escort her into the tearoom and settle her at one of the smaller tables by the far wall. Cassie saw us and started towards us with a menu but I waved her away, saying casually, “Oh, the lady has already decided what she’s having. You know, that special we’re doing—‘Tea for Two’—the scone and cuppa for two quid.”
Cassie stopped in her tracks. “We are?”
“Yes, don’t you remember?” I said quickly. “Never mind, I’ll go and fix it up myself.”
I hurried into the kitchen and looked for the tray that held our signature scones. I was relieved to see that there were still a few left. Some days we sold out completely. I picked the largest I could find and quickly warmed it in the microwave, then placed it on a plate, together with a generous spoon of our home-made strawberry jam and a dollop of rich clotted cream. I put the plate on a tray and added a Royal Crown Derby bone china teapot filled to the brim with hot English tea, a matching teacup, a little jug of fresh milk, and a pot of old-fashioned sugar lumps. I glanced around and hastily scooped two shortbread biscuits out of the tin on the sideboard. These I arranged on the edge of the saucer, then I carried the whole thing out to the woman at the table. Her eyes widened as the food was placed in front of her.
“No, no… I didn’t ask for the shortbread as well. I can’t afford—”
“Those are compliments of the house,” I said quickly. “We’re trying out a new shortbread recipe so we’ve been giving all customers a free trial to see what they think.” I gestured towards the food. “Go on, have a taste. I’d love to know your opinion—it would be really helpful to us.”
She hesitated, obviously torn between hunger and pride. I turned discreetly away but as I walked back to the counter, I glanced over my shoulder. The woman was biting into a scone, heavily slathered with jam and cream, and her eyes were closed blissfully. She chewed and swallowed, then took a sip of the hot tea and I saw her shoulders relax under the threadbare coat and colour come into her haggard face. A wave of gladness spread through me.
I got back to the counter and observed her surreptitiously. She looked vaguely familiar—had I seen her around the village? Yes, that’s right… in the village post shop, I think. Unlike most of the residents of Meadowford-on-Smythe who were keen to chat and ask nosy questions, she had kept mostly to herself. A severe-looking woman with wispy grey hair pulled back in a bun and a haughty tilt to her chin. I wondered what her story was. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties and she moved with a certain stiffness. Arthritis? An old injury perhaps? Maybe one that prevented her from working?
One of the remaining customers came over to pay, interrupting my thoughts, and then I was kept busy by a trio of Swedish tourists who wanted to buy souvenirs from the shop. By the time they left, the woman had finished. She approached the counter with her old leather handbag.
“Thank you,” she said formally. “It was delicious.”
I was glad to see the spots of colour in her cheeks and hear the energy in her voice. I wanted desperately to do something else for her but I didn’t know what else I could do, without offending her pride. I stood awkwardly behind the counter, trying not to look as she laboriously counted out loose change from a small faded purse. I was almost more nervous than she was that there wouldn’t be enough to make up the full amount and breathed a silent sigh of relief as she finally pushed the motley collection of coins across the counter.
“There… that’s £2… and another pound for the shortbread.”
“Oh, no, I told you, that was complimentary—”
“And I told you, I’m not taking charity,” she snapped.
I hesitated, then reluctantly took the money. “Any time you’re passing by, don’t hesitate to come in. We often have specials at the end of the day…”
“Do you?” She looked at me sharply. “Funny how it’s not advertised. Most places can’t hang signs big enough to shout about their specials.”
“Oh… um… well…” I stammered.
She leaned across the counter and fixed me with a ferocious glare. “Don’t think I didn’t realise what you were doing.” She paused, then added stiffly, “But I appreciate your kindness.”
I gave her a hesitant smile. “I think I might have seen you around the village. My name is Gemma. Gemma Rose. I’m the owner of the Little Stables Tearoom.”
“I’m Dora Kempton,” she said.
She held a hand out and I shook it. Her hands were warm now but terribly thin. I glanced down. The skin on her fingers was calloused and worn.
“I meant what I said.” I smiled at her again. “You’re welcome any time.”
She gave a slight nod. “I will be back… when I can pay for my own meal.”
Turning, she walked stiff-backed towards the front door and I watched her open it and disappear into the mist.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was relieved when I got home to find that my mother had already gone out for her dinner with friends. Things were complicated enough with Devlin without adding my mother into the mix. I wasn’t sure I wanted to brave the awkwardness of a confrontation between them. I knew that Devlin blamed my mother for breaking us apart eight years ago and, in a way, he was right.
She meant well, but my mother was a bit of a snob and although he was a fellow Oxford graduate, Devlin—with his working-class roots and his lack of the “right connections”—had seemed a poor match for her only daughter. How ironic that now, eight years later, Devlin should be one of the top investigators in the CID and the owner of a beautiful converted farmhouse in the Cotswolds, whilst I—with my brilliant Oxford education and middle-class privileges—was living back with my parents, trying to keep a tearoom business afloat.
Muesli met me at the front door, loudly demanding to know when her dinner was going to be served. My mother had offered to feed the little cat before she left, but I liked to save this bit of daily ritual for myself. After a long hectic day, it was lovely to return to the familiar evening routine in the cosy kitchen, humming a tune and preparing Muesli’s food as she wove herself between my legs and told me impatiently to hurry up.
“Meorrw,” she grumbled, rubbing against my shin. “Meorrrrrw!”
“All right, all right,” I said, as I portioned the food into her little ceramic bowl. I bent down and placed it on the tiles, underneath the breakfast counter. “Here you go, madam.”
Muesli scampered over and put her face eagerly into the bowl. A loud rumbling sound began to fill the kitchen and I smiled in spite of myself. There was just something wonderful about the sound of a contented cat purring.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Yikes. I’d better hurry if I want to have a shower
before Devlin arrives to pick me up. Twenty minutes later, I was just putting the finishing touches to my makeup when the doorbell rang. I hurried downstairs, trying to ignore the rapid beating of my heart. Why did I always feel like a teenage girl going out on her first date when Devlin was around?
The door swung open to reveal a tall figure standing on the front doorstep. The mist swirled around him and, for a moment, he looked just like those Celtic warriors you see in ancient mythology—all fierce blue eyes, wavy dark hair, and strong, aquiline profile—then he stepped into the hall and the impression was gone, to be replaced by a tall, handsome man in beautifully tailored coat. He must have come straight from work as he was dressed in a charcoal grey three-piece suit, with an Italian silk tie and crisp white shirt. On any other man, it might have come across a bit dandyish, but with his dark good looks, Devlin wore it all with a suave sophistication worthy of James Bond.
“Hi,” I breathed, not quite meeting his eyes. It was stupid but I hadn’t seen him since before Christmas and suddenly, I don’t know why, I felt shy.
“Hi.” The corner of his lips quirked in a smile. “I was going to bring roses again but I decided I’d better not tempt Fate. Maybe if we don’t act like it’s a date, we might actually get there.”
I laughed and the tension was broken. “Come in… I just need to grab my coat from the living room…”
Devlin followed me but as he entered the living room, he stumbled and tripped. “What the—?”
A streak of grey fur had shot out from behind the sofa and across the room towards him. It was Muesli. She twined herself around Devlin’s legs, purring like a little engine and looking up at him adoringly.
“Oh… uh… hi, Muesli,” said Devlin, hobbling slightly.
I laughed. “I think she likes you.”
Devlin looked as if he didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified at this suggestion and the expression on his face made me want to laugh even more. I was a bit surprised at Muesli’s reaction, though. It wasn’t as if she had met Devlin many times—in fact, the last time was when she had helped him save my life. But it looked like he was firmly on her list of “Most Favourite Persons”. She wouldn’t leave him alone. When Devlin finally managed to free his legs enough to walk across the room and sit down on the couch, she promptly hopped up and made herself comfortable on his lap, shedding grey and white fur all over his Italian wool trousers.
