Two Down, Bun To Go (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 3)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Oh, sorry about that—” I leaned over to pick her up but Devlin waved me away awkwardly.

  “No, no, it’s okay. Leave her. She… er… looks comfortable.”

  Muesli certainly looked comfortable, her eyes half shut as she began kneading ecstatically in Devlin’s groin. He drew in a sharp breath and stiffened.

  “Er… what’s she doing?” he said, trying to maintain the image of manly calm.

  I stifled a laugh. “It’s called kneading. Cats do that when they like you.”

  Devlin winced as Muesli’s claws dug into the fine fabric of his trousers but he didn’t try to move her.

  “I thought you said you’re not a cat person,” I teased, coming over to sit next to him on the couch.

  “I’m not,” said Devlin, with some surprise. “I’ve always preferred dogs. But there’s something about her…” He gestured helplessly as the little tabby stopped kneading and rested her chin on his stomach. She closed her eyes and began to purr even louder than before.

  I bit back a laugh and wished I dared to pick up my phone to take a photo. The sight of Devlin O’Connor, CID detective extraordinaire, pinned to my parents’ sofa by a little tabby cat was something to behold.

  “What time’s the table booked for?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  “Yeah, but…” Devlin looked down at the sleeping cat on his lap. “She looks so comfortable… I hate to disturb her.”

  I rolled my eyes. It looked like Muesli had made another conquest. How was it that cats always managed to worm their way into your affections, even when you didn’t want to like them?

  Devlin was shuffling awkwardly around on the couch, trying to slide Muesli off his lap, but she clung to him like a limpet.

  “You’ll have to push her off,” I said.

  He looked horrified at the suggestion. “Won’t that hurt her?”

  I burst out laughing. “No, I think it’ll hurt you more than it’ll hurt her.”

  Devlin didn’t look convinced but he reached a hesitant hand towards Muesli’s rump and gave a gentle push.

  “Meorrw!” she cried mournfully.

  Devlin jerked his hand back. “Oh, bloody hell—sorry!”

  I gave Muesli a stern look. She blinked at me innocently but I could see the gleam of mischief in her green eyes. The little minx was putting it on—she knew Devlin was a soft touch and she was milking it for everything she was worth.

  “She’s fine,” I said. “She’s just having you on. You’ve got to be firm otherwise she’ll walk all over you.”

  Devlin hesitated, then tried again, pushing Muesli gingerly off his lap. She gave another indignant meorrw but allowed herself to be shifted onto the couch cushion. Devlin looked torn as he stood up.

  “She’s fine,” I assured him.

  “Meorrrrw…” said Muesli in her most pitiful voice.

  “Maybe we should give her a little something before we go?” said Devlin. “Like a treat?”

  I rolled my eyes again but went obligingly into the kitchen to get some of Muesli’s favourite dried duck jerky treats. Devlin gave her a generous handful and she tucked into them with a smug expression.

  “Little minx,” I muttered, giving Muesli a sour look as I herded Devlin out of the living room.

  We went to a new Italian restaurant that I wasn’t familiar with, on Little Clarendon Street. It had the clichéd red chequered tablecloths, pictures of the Leaning Tower of Pisa on the walls, and melted stubs of candles stuck in wine bottles on each table, but somehow, the overall effect was charming rather than cheesy. We sat down and tried to decipher the menu in the flickering candlelight. Finally, we took a gamble and just randomly chose two pizzas and an insalata verde mista to share.

  The waitress took our order and brought us each a glass of Chianti. Devlin took a sip of the red wine, then leaned back with a sigh. I cast him a covert look. He was looking tired, I noticed, with lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth.

  “Tough day?” I asked.

  He let out another sigh. “Yeah, one of several. And we had a new murder come in last night.” His eyes flicked to mine. “Your friend, Seth, is in custody.”

  “Are you working the case?” I asked eagerly.

  Devlin hesitated. “Yes.”

  Hope surged in my chest. “You’re going to release him, right? You know he can’t possibly be the murderer!”

  “Gemma…” said Devlin gently. “I don’t know anything of the kind. You can’t ask me to ignore the evidence in front of me and…” His mouth twisted. “At the moment, the evidence against Seth is very strong. He was discovered holding the murder weapon, standing over the body, and covered in the victim’s blood.”

  “Who found them?”

  “The head porter of Wadsworth College, Clyde Peters. He was doing a round of the college and came upon Seth with Barrow’s body. It’s easy to see why it looked like murder.”

  “But… but that’s just ridiculous and you know it!” I said. “You know Seth! You’ve known him since we were all here at Oxford together! You know there’s no way he could murder anyone!”

  “We don’t know how anyone can react when under stress.”

  I stared at Devlin in angry disbelief. “Are you telling me you’re seriously considering him a suspect?”

  “I’m telling you I have to do my job.”

  “What about the murder weapon? I heard that it was an Egyptian dagger. Seth doesn’t own anything like that.”

  “How do you know about the murder weapon?” Devlin asked sharply.

  “The Old Biddies told me.”

  Devlin cursed under his breath. “Is there anything those meddling busybodies don’t know?”

  “But it is, isn’t it? You must have checked that, first thing. It’s such an unusual weapon to use. Who does it belong to?”

  He was silent for a moment, as if considering whether to tell me, then finally said, “It isn’t actually a real dagger—the Old Biddies were getting a bit carried away, I think. It’s a paper knife—a letter opener—that’s shaped like a replica Egyptian dagger. But with a pretty sharp point and lethal nonetheless if stabbed with enough force. It’s one of those souvenirs you can buy in tourist shops in Cairo. It belongs to a don at Wadsworth—a colleague of Professor Barrow’s actually—called Dr Leila Gaber. She brought it with her when she came from Egypt. But—” he said, forestalling my protest, “I interviewed Dr Gaber myself today and she says that she had been using it as a paperknife and Seth asked to borrow it the day before.”

  “And Seth confirmed this?”

  “Yes. He admitted that he did borrow the ‘dagger’. His prints are all over it, which would be expected if he was the last person to handle it. But he claims that he returned it to Leila Gaber’s pigeonhole before dinner last night and that that was the last time he saw it before finding it lodged in Professor Barrow’s neck.”

  “Well, in that case, anyone could have got hold of this dagger letter opener,” I said. “You know as well as I do—pigeonholes aren’t like lockers. They’re just open compartments. Anything put into them can be easily taken out by someone else. And they could have worn gloves.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Devlin. “But the fact remains that Seth is the last known person to be in possession of that dagger.”

  “Did you check Leila Gaber’s alibi, though?”

  “Of course,” said Devlin impatiently. “She says she was working late in the library.”

  I frowned. “That can’t be true. The library wouldn’t still be open at midnight.”

  “Not normally, but Dr Gaber was given special dispensation. She’s working on a research project at the moment which requires access to some valuable old manuscripts held at the Wadsworth College library. She managed to get permission from the college to gain an extra set of keys so that she could use the library out of hours.”

  “Was anyone else in there with her?”

  “Earlier in the evening, yes.”

  “But
not around midnight,” I said quickly.

  “No,” Devlin admitted. “Although she says she was in the library until 12:45 a.m. when she heard the commotion outside and went out to see what was going on. That tallies with the police report from last night.”

  “Yes, but still, you’ve only got her word that she was in the library the whole time. That’s not a proper alibi! The library overlooks the Cloisters on one side. The main entrance of the library is from Walled Garden but I’ll bet there’s a back door leading into the Cloisters. She could have easily slipped out, killed Barrow, and then slipped back into the library without anyone seeing her.”

  “She could have—but the question remains: why? Why would she kill Barrow? She had little motive.”

  I had no comeback for that. Irritated, I said, “What about any strangers lurking around the college? Maybe the murder wasn’t committed by someone from the college at all. Don’t you have footage from security cameras, so you can see who’d been in the Cloisters around the time of the murder?”

  “This is Oxford, Gemma. You should know better than anyone else what it’s like. Half the buildings here are heritage-listed treasures from the 13th century. You can barely get a phone line put in without special permission and there is no way the colleges are going to rig up ugly security cameras in the quadrangle walls. No, we have no footage from within the college to work with.” He paused, then added, “There is a CCTV on the street opposite the front gate and the back gate, and we have been looking through the footage from those.”

  “And?” I looked at him eagerly.

  “Nothing suspicious outside the back gate but on the side of the street opposite the front gate, there is someone—a man—who can be seen lurking around.”

  “What time?”

  “12:23 a.m.”

  “Who is it? Have you identified him?”

  “It’s hard to tell exactly because of the dim light but it appears to be a tramp. Big fellow, red hair, we think, though that might be due to the glare from the street lights… My sergeant is trying to track him down at the moment so we can question him. It won’t be easy, though, because if he really is a member of the homeless community in Oxford, he probably won’t be recorded in the usual systems and databases. Things like credit cards, bank accounts, employer records, and drivers’ licences won’t help us much.”

  “Can I see the footage?”

  “No.” Devlin’s brows drew together. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

  I flushed.

  Devlin took a deep breath. “Gemma, look… I know you want to help Seth but you can’t get involved. It’s not that I don’t trust you with confidential information but this case is different. It’s one of your closest friends who’s been charged with murder. You aren’t able to act dispassionately or consider things unemotionally.” He leaned forwards. “If you really want to help Seth, the best thing you can do is stay out of it and leave the investigation to the police.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I stared at Devlin mutinously. “You can’t expect me to just sit back and do nothing!”

  “That’s exactly what I expect you to do.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then I had a better idea. Forcing myself to sound calm and reasonable, I gave Devlin a smile and said, “Okay, can you at least tell me everything else you know about the case? Just so I feel like the police are really following up every lead,” I added hastily. “I promise not to get involved after this.”

  He eyed me sceptically.

  “I mean, what about any enemies that Barrow might have had? And who stands to gain by his death?”

  Devlin hesitated and I gave him a pleading look.

  He sighed and relented. “We’re looking into his relationships with colleagues and students. As for gain, Barrow was an old bachelor and his estate goes to his next of kin: a sister called Joan and a younger brother, Richard.”

  “Have you questioned them?”

  “We haven’t been able to trace the brother yet but Joan Barrow lives in Reading. She’s coming to Oxford tomorrow to see me at the station.”

  “She’s coming here?” I looked at him in surprise. I would have thought that the police would go to her home to interview her.

  “She insisted. I did offer to go down there but she seemed reluctant to let the CID invade her home. I gather that her partner is an invalid and a bit of a nervous type and she didn’t want to upset him.”

  “Does she stand to inherit a lot of money?”

  Devlin inclined his head. “Barrow was a pretty wealthy man.”

  “Money is a strong motive.”

  “So is anger.”

  “Aw, come on!” I said scornfully. “I can’t believe that they’re accusing Seth of murder just because he had some philosophical debate with another don at High Table! You know what these college fellows are like in the Senior Common Room, especially when they’ve had a couple of drinks! Everyone’s obsessed with their pet subject in some obscure area of academia and they’ll argue for hours over the origin of genius during the Italian Renaissance or whether sub-atomic particles really do exist or are just thought to exist… Bloody hell, if having a heated argument with another don made you guilty, half the academics in Oxford should be put behind bars!”

  “This wasn’t some academic debate,” said Devlin. “There were several witnesses, including other dons and students in the dining hall, who say they saw Seth and Barrow having a loud, aggressive argument and Seth throw a glass of wine in Barrow’s face, then reach across the table as if to harm him. The two men had to be forcibly separated by the Steward. And then they had further words later in the S.C.R.—which is situated alongside the Cloisters, by the way. In fact, Clyde Peters, the head porter, reported seeing the two of them arguing outside the S.C.R. entrance and almost coming to blows. His account was backed up by a witness statement from a student who was returning from the college chapel at the time. Both of them claim to have heard Seth threatening Barrow and the latter laughing at him.”

  “But people say all sorts of things they don’t mean in the heat of an argument! They didn’t actually see Seth strike Barrow or anything, did they?”

  “No,” Devlin admitted. “The two men seemed to calm down eventually and go their separate ways. Barrow went back into the S.C.R. and Seth was last seen heading towards the Walled Garden. I suppose he was making for the shortcut back into Gloucester.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around a quarter to twelve.”

  “Was that the last time anyone saw Barrow alive?”

  “No, a student reported seeing him at around 12:10 a.m. coming out of the SCR. He was lighting his pipe—it was well known that Barrow liked to have a walk around the Cloisters and a smoke last thing at night before turning in. He had bachelor rooms in college.”

  “So anyone familiar with his habits could have lain in wait for him there.”

  “Yes,” Devlin conceded. “But it would probably have to be someone fairly close to him—or at least a regular visitor to Wadsworth College.”

  He didn’t add “as Seth was” but it hung in the air between us. I ignored it and continued doggedly on.

  “And when was his body found?”

  “Well, Seth claims to have stumbled across it just before half past twelve, and the head porter found them at around 12:30 a.m. So that leaves a twenty-minute gap from when Barrow was last seen alive, during which the murder must have taken place.”

  I was almost afraid to ask but I had to know. “What was Seth doing in the Cloisters at that time?”

  Devlin shrugged. “He said that he had gone back to his room in Gloucester, then realised that he didn’t have his mobile phone. He thought that he must have dropped it in Wadsworth, perhaps even during the last argument with Barrow outside the SCR, so he retraced his steps and found Barrow’s body. The thing is, Gemma…” Devlin gave me a hard look. “It’s not just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seth had a motive.”

&
nbsp; “What do you mean?”

  “I told you—they weren’t just having some academic debate. They were arguing over the work of the Domus Trust and specifically over the college-sponsored housing project.”

  The Domus Trust? Where had I heard that name before? I remembered suddenly: the note I’d removed from Professor Barrow’s pigeonhole. The note from Seth. It had mentioned something about the Domus Trust. But that wasn’t the only time… it was coming back to me now… Seth had been heavily involved with a charity in recent months. I remembered him talking enthusiastically about their efforts to help the homeless in Oxford. He’d been an active volunteer, spending time helping out in the mobile soup kitchens around the city. I wished I’d paid more attention to him now when he had talked of them but I was pretty sure the charity was the Domus Trust.

  As if reading my thoughts, Devlin said, “Seth is a volunteer and an active member of the Domus Trust. In fact, he’s been campaigning for the use of college-donated land to provide accommodation for those in need. Wadsworth and Gloucester have joint ownership over a piece of land on the outskirts of the city, and as part of the University’s efforts to tackle the homeless problem in Oxford, the two colleges have been considering the donation of this piece of land to the Trust, for them to build some affordable housing. In fact, Seth was the official representative for Gloucester College and Quentin Barrow happened to be the Wadsworth committee member elected to represent the college’s interests.”

  I frowned. “Barrow supported the charity too?”

  Devlin shook his head. “No, that was just it. He didn’t support it—or the housing project—at all. And as one of the longest-standing members of the college, Barrow wielded a lot of power and influence over the rest of the college committee. It seemed that his vote was crucial in deciding whether Wadsworth would approve the proposal. The final decision was to take place next week. And since the land is jointly owned by the two colleges, they needed both sides on board before the donation could be approved. If Barrow had vetoed the donation, then the whole project would have fallen apart. On the other hand, with Barrow out of the way…”