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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Oh… er… right. I’m glad you told me.”

  I had a bad feeling about this interview already. Nevertheless, I sat down opposite her and began asking her some questions. It was soon obvious, however, that Abby Finch had come not so much to answer my questions as to tell me her requirements.

  “I won’t bake with refined white sugar; I only use stevia or honey—or raw brown sugar, at a pinch, organic, mind… and I will only use organic butter in my baking… and what is more, I think that all heavy cream should be replaced by evaporated skimmed milk…”

  I nodded and listened and bit my tongue. Finally, when she paused for a breath, I said smoothly, “I’m not sure we’re a good fit for each other, Ms Finch—I’m afraid my pantry is too corrupted now and I would hate for you to… er… suffer emotional stress while working here. But thank you very much for coming.”

  She gave a nod and rose, then walked stiffly out of the kitchen. I followed her to the door and drew a sigh of relief as I shut it after her. Cassie gave me a questioning look and I had to refrain from saying what I really wanted to say as I was aware of the customers still in the tearoom. Before I had time to do more than make a face at her, the next candidate had arrived and I found myself back in the kitchen, this time facing a smartly-dressed woman with very glamorous hair who was overflowing with enthusiasm.

  “Oh, this is simply marvellous! Marvellous! There is so much potential here—we could add a laminated resin counter by the window with stainless steel stools—bring in a bit of that industrial chic that’s all the rage at the moment—and some geometric pendant lamps, very Scandinavian, and of course, the menu must be revamped—can’t have all these stodgy old cakes and breads and things—”

  “But we’re a traditional English tearoom… Those are the kinds of things that people expect to eat when they come in here,” I protested.

  “Nonsense!” she cried. “Gastropubs are so ‘in’ right now! And they’re providing customers with fresh, innovative options—we don’t want boring old cucumber sandwiches with butter and white bread! We want zucchini ribbons and truffle butter in French brioche or honeydew melon with mascarpone on soy and linseed loaf!”

  I thought back to the Old Biddies’ outraged reaction to my slightly “different” cucumber sandwiches. Somehow, I had a feeling that this woman didn’t understand how much people loved and embraced the “boring old menu options”.

  “I’m sorry, I think you might have misunderstood my advertisement,” I said. “I’m looking for a traditional English baking chef—someone who can recreate the old-fashioned British favourites, to the highest quality. Of course, we don’t want stodgy baking, but we want to preserve the traditional qualities that’s made these cakes and puddings and buns such firm favourites for centuries. And the tourists who come here want to know that they are tasting real, old-fashioned English baking, not some modern concoction.”

  She waved a contemptuous hand. “They don’t know what they’re missing until they try it. Once they’ve tasted my modern alternatives, they’ll never want to go back.”

  Her presumptive attitude was beginning to annoy me. “Well, it’s very interesting to hear your thoughts on the subject and I will bear that in mind. However, for the time being, I am happy with the identity of the tearoom and with what we serve on the menu. In fact, our traditional English scones are one of the things we’re gaining a reputation for, with people coming from miles away just to sample our scones. I wouldn’t want to change that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry—once I make the changes, everyone will wonder what they had been missing. When I’m chef, I’ll take over everything for you.”

  Over my dead body, I thought. Aloud, I said with a pleasant smile, “Thank you for coming, Miss Reynolds.”

  “So when shall I start?” she said. “I’m free at the moment, so if you’re busy, I can start this weekend if you like.”

  “I haven’t made a decision yet—I have several other candidates to see,” I said quickly. “I’ll let you know soon if your application has been successful.”

  She stared at me, her mouth slightly open. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that she might not get the position.

  “Oh. Oh, right…” She stood up reluctantly. Casting a look around the rustic, cosy kitchen, she said, “You could really do with some modernising in here too. Well, I’m sure I’ll be discussing it with you next week.”

  I’m sure you won’t, I thought grimly but I kept my smile in place and escorted her to the door.

  “Well?” said Cassie as soon as I returned to the counter.

  I shook my head with a sigh. “So far, between the gluten Nazi and the modern décor maniac who wants to turn our tearoom into a gastropub, I don’t know which is the worse choice.”

  “Don’t worry, there’ll be other candidates. In fact, it looks like someone else is arriving right now…”

  I glanced out of the windows and my spirits lifted. A plump, jolly-looking woman with rosy apple cheeks was coming up the path. She looked exactly like what you expected a baking chef to look like. A moment later she let herself into the tearoom and I went forwards eagerly to meet her.

  “Are you here for the chef interview?” I asked.

  She nodded and sniffed appreciatively. “Yes, my name’s Emily Tucker. My, what is that wonderful smell?”

  I showed her into the kitchen and as we passed the latest batch of scones that my mother had baked, I saw her eye the tray hungrily.

  “Would you like to try one?” I said, thinking that it was probably a good idea to let the chef sample the items they would have to recreate.

  “Sure, I’d love to!” Without waiting for me to offer, she grabbed a plate from the sideboard and helped herself to two scones from the tray, adding a large dollop of clotted cream and some home-made jam from the jar. I was slightly taken aback but told myself that it was good that she felt so at home already.

  That was an understatement. In the next half hour, as I tried to take her through the interview questions, Emily Tucker felt so at home that she managed to consume six jam tarts, a plate of rhubarb crumble, two mini muffins, a slice of lemon meringue pie, and a treacle sponge pudding, all while I watched her in alarm. Politeness and astonishment at her audacity had prevented me from stopping her.

  I stared at her, thinking: Never mind how good a chef she might be—if I hired her, she would probably eat me out of house and home! The tearoom would have to double its food supply bill, just to keep up with her appetite!

  “Oh and I don’t like to work weekends much, so I usually just bake an extra batch in advance on Fridays,” she said with her mouth full. She swallowed and looked around the kitchen. “You got any coffee and walnut cake? I saw that on the menu and it sounded fabulous.”

  “Yes, but I’m keeping it for the customers,” I said pointedly.

  I was feeling annoyed. My poor mother had come in early this morning to get some extra baking done so that we would be stocked up as much as possible while she was away and this woman had just single-handedly consumed a quarter of them.

  “I’m afraid the next candidate will be arriving soon,” I lied, rising and hoping she would take the hint. “Thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  She got up reluctantly and left, though not before asking if she could take a Chelsea bun to go. I shut the door behind her and sagged against it.

  “That bad, huh?” said Cassie, grinning from behind the counter.

  I shook my head in despair. “We’re never going to find another chef!”

  “You’ve only just started looking,” Cassie consoled me. “I’m sure it’s like any job—you probably have to interview quite a few candidates before you find the right one. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find the perfect person.”

  I sighed and hoped that she was right. It was just after four-thirty but the tearoom was already empty of customers, which was quite unusual. I glanced out of the window—we were well past the shortest day of the year now but it wa
s still getting dark by mid-afternoon. It was depressing and something that I had really struggled with in the past few weeks. Coming back to England had seemed exciting and romantic after eight years of continuous sunshine in Sydney but now that I’d been here a few months and we were stuck in the dismal darkness of winter, the novelty was wearing off quickly. I walked to the tearoom windows and peered out. The skies were an ominous grey-black and that heavy fog was coming in again. I wasn’t surprised that there weren’t many people and tourists about.

  “Think we’ll get any more customers?” said Cassie, coming to join me at the windows and looking out doubtfully. “Maybe we can close a bit earlier today.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Seth’s being released from the police station soon. I was hoping to pop home and change before we went to pick him up.”

  The tearoom door opened and we both turned from the windows. A middle-aged woman peered in.

  “Are you still serving?” she asked hesitantly.

  “You go on,” I said to Cassie in an undertone. “I’ll look after her and lock up here. I’ll meet you at the police station.” Then, turning to the woman, I gave her a smile and said, “Yes, of course, would you like a table by the window?”

  I settled her and quickly brought her order: a pot of English breakfast tea with scones, jam, and clotted cream. She took her time, sipping the tea and gazing out the window, as if lost in thought, and I chafed a bit under the delay. When she finally rose and approached the counter to pay, I breathed a sigh of relief and rang up her bill with alacrity.

  “This is a lovely establishment,” she said. “And your scones were delicious.”

  I smiled. Praise for my tearoom always gave me a warm glow. “I’m glad you like it. Are you local or just visiting?”

  “I live in Reading, actually, although I’m familiar with Oxford and the Cotswolds. But I hadn’t heard of this tearoom before. In fact, I only came because I got a recommendation.”

  I was only half-listening as I took her credit card and started to put it through the machine. Then I froze as I saw the name printed on the card. Joan Barrow.

  I looked up at her. “You’re Professor Barrow’s sister!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The woman looked at me with mild surprise. “Yes, I am… Did you know my brother?”

  “Um… well, not personally. It’s just that… I heard about the murder,” I said awkwardly. “I’m very sorry.”

  She nodded, although I didn’t discern any particular signs of grief on her face. “Yes, it was a great shock,” she said in a colourless voice.

  I looked at her in surprise. She might as well have been discussing the weather. But perhaps it was just her way. I knew that not everyone wailed and sobbed or even wanted to express their sorrow openly; some withdrew, became distant and grieved privately. Perhaps she was that type.

  I looked at her with more interest. Her features were plain and strangely colourless, like her voice. Her clothes were the typical combination of Marks & Spencer’s cardigan and beige tapered trousers, her eyes a watery blue, her face showing some signs of make-up. She looked like a dozen other British suburban housewives you’d probably pass in a shopping centre or supermarket and never look at twice.

  “It’s the reason I’m in Oxford,” she explained. “The police wanted to see me; I’ve just been to the Oxfordshire police headquarters. It was actually the detective who questioned me—a Detective O’Connor—who recommended that I come here. He said you had the best scones in Oxfordshire.”

  A warm feeling filled my chest, in spite of myself and my recent anger with Devlin, and I felt slightly mollified. It was nice of him to recommend the tearoom and send me some business.

  “Your brother’s death is a huge loss to the University, I’m sure,” I said. “I believe he’s a great expert in his field.”

  “Yes, he’s great man,” she said but my ears pricked at something in her voice. At last, a bit of emotion had flickered in that colourless tone and, if I wasn’t wrong, it was bitterness. I was surprised.

  I hesitated, then tossed caution to the wind and said, “Were you and your brother close?”

  “No,” she said shortly.

  I waited, knowing that sometimes silence was more powerful than any question. It was human nature to feel compelled to explain, to justify—especially when you did the socially inappropriate thing of expressing dislike for your own sibling.

  I was rewarded for my patience. Joan Barrow glanced away, then back at me and said:

  “My brother, Quentin, might have been top of his field and respected in Oxford, but he was also a pompous, overbearing, elitist snob who thought he knew best for everyone, including me. He didn’t like the fact that I ‘married beneath me’, as he called it—actually, Steve and I aren’t even married—we just live together—which made it even worse in Quentin’s eyes. He said I was throwing myself away, living in sin, when I should have married a nice, respectable Oxbridge man. And even though Quentin knew that we needed financial help and he was well able to afford it, he wouldn’t help us when we desperately needed it.” The bitterness was thick in her voice now and there was colour coming into her cheeks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry…” I murmured.

  But she went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My partner, Steve, is sick. He suffers from anxiety and nerves and a terrible sort of lethargy. Quentin thought he was just playing the invalid but it’s not true! You don’t know what poor Steve suffers. And he can be treated—I know there are special treatments which would help him—but they’re expensive. You have to go to the United States… but it wouldn’t have been much to Quentin! He was rich! And he had no family of his own. Why shouldn’t he have spent a bit to help his sister?” Her mouth twisted and her pale blue eyes simmered with anger. “But he refused. So we’re having to scrimp and save and hope that maybe eventually we might save up enough to afford the treatment…”

  “Do you have any other brothers and sisters who can help you?” I asked, hoping that she might mention Richard Barrow.

  Her expression softened. “Yes, I have a younger brother, Richard. Now he’s completely different from Quentin. He understands how difficult it is for Steve and he’s always so generous! Not that he has much to give, unfortunately. Of course, he can’t help it if he gets into a bit of trouble now and then. He’s had a run of bad luck. He was invited to join several schemes and things which somehow turned out badly and he ended up owing people money or losing everything he invested.” She sighed, shaking her head. “He’s got too much of a good nature, Richard, and trusts people too easily. Quentin used to say that Richard’s just a gambler who didn’t want to work but he never understood that Richard is a dreamer, with big ideas—much bigger than Quentin’s stupid research in the closed world of Oxford.”

  “Have you told Richard about Professor Barrow’s death?”

  Her expression closed suddenly. “No,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to Richard at all recently. He travels a lot and I’m not quite sure where he is at present. He’s not very good about keeping in touch.”

  She reached out and took her credit card, sliding it back into her wallet, then shouldered her handbag. “Well, I must hurry now or I’ll miss the train back to Reading. There’s a bus going from here back into Oxford town centre, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, you can pick it up from the bus stop in front of the village school,” I said.

  She nodded and thanked me, then left. I watched her stout figure through the windows, retreating into the distance, and thought about what she had told me. There had certainly been little love lost between her and her dead brother. Could that bitterness and anger have translated into something more? With Barrow dead now, Joan was due to inherit a lot of money—more than enough for her precious partner to have his treatment in America. Reading was only about thirty minutes from Oxford by train and there were frequent services, with the last one well after midnight…

  And what about her brother, Richard? Had she been telling
the truth about not contacting him? He sounded like he could have done with a big injection of funds too. Was it possible that the brother and sister had hatched a plan for murder between them?

  I sighed and began shutting up the tearoom. There were just too many unanswered questions. Then I thought of Seth. He might have some of the answers. I began to move faster, eager to get back to Oxford and see him.

  ***

  Seth looked terrible when he stepped out of the police station. He was unshaven, his clothes dishevelled, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot behind his glasses. But most of all, it was the look of haggard despair on his face that got to me.

  “Seth!”

  Cassie and I went towards him. She beat me to it, rushing up to him as if she was going to throw herself into his arms, but just as she reached him, she faltered. Cassie fumbled, as if suddenly trying not to touch him, and turned her head quickly so that her lips brushed his cheek instead. Seth flushed and looked intensely embarrassed. He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned hastily to me, catching me in a careless hug, whilst Cassie stepped back and fiddled with her hair. I looked at her in surprise but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Thanks for coming. You have no idea how glad I am to see you guys,” Seth said. “I was having nightmares of seeing my parents out here and wondering how I was going to explain things to them…”

  I’d been wondering about Seth’s parents myself—I’d assumed that his family solicitor would have contacted them. “Where are your parents?”

  “On a cruise,” said Seth with some relief. “It’s their ruby wedding anniversary and they’re supposed to be gone for two weeks. I asked Mr Sexton not to inform them of what happened. My father had a heart attack a few months back and the doctors warned against any kind of stress. The last thing I want to do is to have them worried about me and cutting their trip short to come back.” He took a deep breath. “I’m still hoping that the police might find the real killer and drop the charges against me before they return.”