by H. Y. Hanna
“But it’s ludicrous to think that Seth would murder someone just to ensure that the project goes ahead!”
“Is it?” said Devlin challengingly. “People have been known to kill for their causes. If you believe in something passionately and think that you’re doing something for the greater good, you often feel that the end justifies the means.”
“Yes, but murder…?” I shook my head. “Seth might join a protest in the street or something, but it’s a big jump from that to murder! You’d have to be a really cold-blooded, ruthless person to even entertain the idea and I can tell you for a fact that Seth isn’t that kind of person!”
“I’m not saying that he’s capable of killing someone in cold blood,” said Devlin. “In fact, this murder has all the hallmarks of someone experiencing great anger and loss of control. The attack on Barrow was extremely violent—according to the forensic pathologist, the force with which he was stabbed was three times greater than that necessary to kill him. And think about the risks the murderer took! Anyone could have come upon them in the Cloisters. No, this wasn’t a carefully planned murder, but more like someone overcome by a strong emotion and unable to contain their fury.”
“I still can’t believe anyone would feel like that for the sake of a cause,” I said. “For the death of a loved one, perhaps, or an insult to yourself but…”
“You might change your mind if you’ve met some of the animal rights activists that I’ve put behind bars,” said Devlin dryly. “People will do crazy things for causes because they feel like they’re part of something greater than themselves. Think of all the suicide bombers.”
I sat back, feeling despair wash over me. I realised now what the solicitor had meant. It did look very bad for Seth. With no alibi for the time of the murder, a strong motive, the last sighting of him being in an aggressive situation with the victim, and then being “caught red-handed” holding the murder weapon… it was no wonder that the police were focusing on him as the prime suspect. I had to admit that if Seth hadn’t been my friend, even I would have found it hard to ignore the evidence in front of me.
I gave Devlin a beseeching look. “Devlin, please… I know the evidence is stacked against him but we both know that Seth is really innocent. Can’t you just… ‘massage’ the investigation a bit, so that he’s given a chance? I know there are ways the police can… um… present evidence in a different light and—”
Devlin’s face darkened. “Are you asking me to compromise my ethics and professionalism for your friend?”
“I…”
I didn’t know what to say. Then Cassie’s words in the tearoom that afternoon came back to me and I felt a surge of indignation and resentment.
“And what if I am?” I said. “What’s wrong with bending the rules a bit when you know what you’re doing is the right thing? You’re the one who always used to say—back when we were students—that the end justifies the means. Everyone uses the advantages they can get; it’s how the world works. The secret handshake. The old boys’ club. You can’t deny that it doesn’t exist! It’s no use being all ethical and noble, when nobody else follows those rules.” I looked at him reproachfully. “Even if you don’t care about Seth… I thought you’d do it for me—”
I broke off at the expression on Devlin’s face. There was a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
“Gemma,” he said in a low, furious voice. “Don’t think you can use my feelings for you to influence an investigation. I’m not some kind of tame pet policeman for you to direct and manipulate. I am an officer of the law and I am sworn to uphold justice, including…” he paused significantly, “… doing everything in my power to convict your friend if he’s really committed a murder.”
I drew back as if he had slapped me. The waitress arrived at that moment with our pizzas: great round slabs of thin crispy base, with the cheese still bubbling on top and a medley of pepperoni, juicy mushrooms, fresh tomatoes, and bright peppers scattered across the slices. It looked delicious but I found that I had lost my appetite.
We ate in silence, neither looking at the other, and I felt a pang of loss and regret. This wasn’t how I imagined our first date to be. I’d waited so long for tonight, daydreamed about it, looked forward to it, wondering how he’d look and what we’d talk about, whether we’d still laugh together at the same jokes as we once did, whether he’d walk me to my door at the end of the evening and what his lips would feel like on mine…
When Devlin finally escorted me to the front of my parents’ house, it was not in the warm glow of romantic anticipation but in the tense hostility of cold anger and resentment.
“I’ll see you to the door,” he said stiffly as we paused outside the front gate.
“There’s no need,” I said, just as coldly. “I can manage fine by myself. Thank you for dinner. Good night.” I drew away from him.
He seemed about to say something else, then gave me a curt nod. “Good night.”
I went up the path and the front steps of the house, conscious of him standing there in the street, shrouded in the mist, watching as I let myself into the house and shut the door behind me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was still simmering with anger and resentment the next morning when I arrived in the tearoom and it didn’t help that I had to recount the whole evening again to Cassie.
“You didn’t try hard enough!” she said angrily. “He would have helped if you really talked to him—”
“I did!” I cried, hurt and angry at the injustice of her accusation. I’d practically sacrificed my relationship with Devlin for Seth’s sake. “He’s just—”
“I’m going to talk to Devlin myself,” said Cassie, setting her mouth in a sullen line.
“Cassie, I—”
We were interrupted by the tinkling of the front bells, signalling our first customer for the day. But when I looked up, it wasn’t a group of tourists or a local pensioner I saw standing on the threshold, but a familiar male figure. Lincoln Green.
He looked diffidently around, then his brown eyes lit up as he saw me and he came rapidly across the room. He was dressed, as always, in a well-cut, conservative suit, with an Argyle sweater vest peeking out from beneath the jacket and a Burberry trench coat over one arm. The wind had ruffled his light brown hair but otherwise he was the perfect well-groomed English gentleman. You could almost see Lincoln as a hero in an Austen novel—oh, not Mr Darcy but one of the quieter, gentler heroes: Edmund from Mansfield Park, perhaps, or Edward Ferrars who loved Elinor in Sense and Sensibility—solid, respectable, and quietly attractive.
As he came towards me, I had to admit that my mother wasn’t wrong in her praise of him. Lincoln was good-looking and a nice guy to boot and I enjoyed his company very much. So he didn’t make my heart race the way Devlin did… so what? I thought of the disastrous dinner last night and pressed my mouth into a thin line. Maybe I needed to think twice about being with a man who always raised your blood pressure—and not always in a good way.
“Hi, Gemma, I just came in to…” Lincoln trailed off as he caught sight of the enormous purple elephant water feature next to the counter. “Er… What on earth is that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Long story. Involving my mother. You don’t really want to know.”
“Ah.” Lincoln gave me an understanding smile.
As Helen Green’s son, he had come in for his fair share of embarrassments. His mother had been my mother’s keenest accomplice when it came to throwing the two of us together. Not that Lincoln seemed to mind their efforts – in fact, he had made it quite clear to me that he would like to turn our friendship into something else. I hadn’t encouraged him but I had to admit, I hadn’t exactly rebuffed him, either. I had thought that maybe… after last night and a “proper” date with Devlin… my feelings would be clearer and I’d know what I really wanted. Instead, I felt in more of a turmoil than ever.
I sighed inwardly. Why was life always so complicated? Here was a man who was simple and straightforwa
rd, an eminent doctor, attractive, dependable, and kind—and a long-time family friend too. Why couldn’t he be the one who made my heart skip a beat every time I saw him?
Not that I didn’t feel a different kind of pleasure when I saw Lincoln, I reminded myself. Maybe he was the kind of man who grew on you more slowly. I knew that choosing Lincoln would make my mother very happy, but I was long past the age now of making life decisions just to make my mother happy. I had done that once, eight years ago, and regretted it bitterly.
Though sometimes I did wonder if it had been the right choice after all. Would Devlin and I have been happy, would we have remained together if I had said yes to his proposal eight years ago? We had both been so young then—so hot-headed and impulsive and full of romantic ideals. Now that I was older and wiser, I was aware that we were both very different, strong personalities, neither willing to budge for the other. Last night had shown me that. Life with Devlin would always be full of challenges and conflict, although full of passion and joy too. Could a relationship built on that kind of turbulent foundation last?
Maybe the person you loved the most wasn’t the person you were most suited to spend your life with…
I shook away my thoughts as Lincoln stepped up to the counter.
“Um… Gemma…” He looked uncomfortable. “I was actually just popping by to ask you… that is, to check… um…”
I looked at him in puzzlement. Lincoln was normally the epitome of polite, social aplomb, always knowing the right thing to say in any occasion. It was unusual for him to be so tongue-tied.
I gave him an encouraging smile. “Yes?”
“It’s about the Oxford Society of Medicine dinner,” he blurted out suddenly. “My mother said that you were coming with me …”
“Oh! Oh, God, yes…” I said, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me. In all the drama with Seth and Devlin, it had completely slipped my mind. “I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ask me, Lincoln. I think it was just my mother interfering again and… I didn’t want to refuse in front of your mother and hurt her feelings… but… but please don’t feel obliged… I mean, I don’t want to force myself on you—” I broke off, flushing as I realised my unfortunate choice of words.
“Oh no, no, don’t apologise. I’d love to… Please force yourself on me any time you like—I mean… er…” he stammered, his cheeks reddening as he also realised what he had said. He took a deep breath and tried again. “What I mean is, it would be a pleasure to take you as my guest. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had been forced into it out of politeness.”
I smiled at him. “No, Lincoln. Not at all. I would be honoured to go as your guest.”
He looked delighted. “Great! I had been meaning to ask you but I wasn’t sure…” He hesitated. “I thought you might have had other plans…” He didn’t say it but I knew he was referring to Devlin.
“No,” I said firmly. “No other plans.”
He beamed.
“Is it black-tie?” I asked.
“Yes, usual guest dinner dress code. Black-tie for the men, cocktail dress for the ladies. Dinner starts at seven but there will be drinks first at 6 p.m., in the Buttery at Wadsworth.”
I froze. “Did you say Wadsworth?”
He looked at me, puzzled. “Yes, why? There’s a tradition for the Society of Medicine dinner to circulate around the different colleges, a different one each term. It just so happens that Wadsworth College was chosen for this term.”
What a fantastic coincidence, I thought to myself with a smile. It would give me the perfect chance to snoop around Wadsworth, without needing an excuse to get in there.
“Gemma? Is something the matter?”
I came back to the present. “No, not really… It’s just… you know about the murder at Wadsworth?”
Lincoln frowned. “Yes. I read about it in the papers this morning. They said they had a suspect in custody.”
I winced. “Yes, that’s my friend, Seth. He’s been arrested for the murder of Professor Barrow.”
Lincoln’s eyes widened. “But surely there’s a mistake? Seth couldn’t have committed the murder.”
I felt a rush of liking for him. “Oh, I’m so glad you think that too! Seth was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence against him and… well, he’s the strongest suspect the police have at the moment.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Lincoln. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”
I felt an even greater wave of affection and gratitude. I gave him a warm smile. “Thanks, Lincoln… that’s really nice of you.”
“Lincoln!” trilled a voice behind us.
My heart sank. I turned to see my mother standing in the doorway of the kitchen, surveying us with delight. She came forwards, holding her arms out to Lincoln.
“You naughty boy—you never told me that you were coming to visit!” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then stood back and looked him up and down. “I think you get taller every time I see you! And don’t you look dashing in that suit? Doesn’t Lincoln look handsome, Gemma?” She gave me a suggestive smile.
I saw Lincoln flush with embarrassment and I squirmed, wanting to throttle my mother. I had been hoping that she wouldn’t realise Lincoln was here—she had been so busy this morning, since we arrived, rushing around the kitchen, preparing and baking some last-minute cakes and buns.
“Now, Lincoln, you must come and have a taste of these Chelsea buns,” said my mother, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the hatch from the kitchen.
She picked up a plate of the plump swirls, scented with cinnamon and lemon zest, filled with dried raisins and sultanas, and the tops shining with a rich sugar glaze. I had tried one earlier and knew they were delicious—full of melting buttery sweetness and sticky satisfaction.
My mother stuck the plate under Lincoln’s nose. “Gemma made these herself and they’re divine!” She simpered. “She’s going to make some lucky man a wonderful wife some day!”
I gasped, not only at her outrageous matchmaking but also at the blatant lie. I couldn’t bake a decent bun to save my life. I started to protest, then sighed and gave up. It was pointless. My mother was like a force of nature—like a tsunami or a tornado or something—it was easier to seek shelter and wait for her to pass, than to try and fight against her.
After Lincoln had duly consumed a plate of Chelsea buns, a bowl of gooseberry trifle, a slice of blueberry cheesecake, and a custard pie (and was starting to look slightly sick), my mother finally let him go—mainly because the smell of burning began drifting out from the kitchen and she threw up her hands with a squeal of: “Oh! My carrot cake!” and disappeared. Lincoln and I both breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“I think I’d better go now while I can still walk,” said Lincoln with a rueful grin at me. “So I’ll see you tomorrow night at quarter to six?”
I returned his smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully and I was glad to have a moment to catch my breath when the lunchtime rush was over. I was just sitting down to rest my weary feet when the front door opened and a middle-aged woman in a tweed coat stepped into the tearoom. For a moment, I thought it might have been Dora Kempton, then I saw that this woman was younger and taller, with a tight pursed mouth and small, close-set eyes. I rose and reached automatically for the menus from the rack.
“Is it just for one?” I said with my standard welcoming smile.
“My name is Abby Finch. I’m here for the interview,” she said.
“Oh! Of course, that’s right…”
In fact, I had completely forgotten that I had scheduled some chef interviews for this afternoon. I had organised these last week—well before I had known about my mother’s sudden desire to see the darkest corners of Southeast Asia—but I was glad now that I had. The need to find a replacement baking chef was greater than ever.
I w
ent forwards, holding out my hand. “I’m Gemma Rose, the owner of the tearoom. Would you like to come into the kitchen?”
Leaving Cassie to look after the customers, I escorted the woman into the kitchen, which was still warm with the smell of freshly baked buns and crumpets. My mother had finally finished her frantic last-minute baking and had left early to do some shopping with Helen Green. I was pleased to have a quiet place for the interview.
The woman looked around with a critical eye and sniffed disapprovingly. Her gaze fell on the packet of sliced toast bread on the sideboard and she turned an outraged face to me. “You use white bread?”
“Well, yes…” I faltered. “That is how traditional English tea sandwiches are made… with white bread…”
Her mouth, if possible, grew even more puckered. “I won’t use anything that’s not gluten-free, soy-free, nut-free, lactose-free, organic, and non-genetically modified. Most pantries are filled with processed products full of the most dreadful toxins and chemicals and preservatives! They can give you migraines, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, hyperactivity—even cancer!”
Slightly taken aback by her rant, I gestured weakly towards the large wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. “Yes… Well… um… would you like to sit down?”
She plonked herself down on a chair by the table and reached out a finger to touch the white flour smeared across the worn, brown surface, then made a sound of derision.
“Disgusting. Did you know that processed white flour is one of the unhealthiest foods you can eat? It’s been completely stripped of all nutritious components, like bran and fibre, and what’s more, has been chemically bleached to appear whiter, and is one of the greatest risk factors for diabetes.”
