by H. Y. Hanna
“Just don’t tell Cassie you found it funny,” I said with a grin. “And in the meantime, we have a batch of burnt scones that we don’t know what to do with… Hey, actually, I meant to ask you about that—do you know any shelters that might be interested in the food? The scones are perfectly good still; we’ve cut the burnt bits off—they just look a bit odd, but they taste fine.”
“The Domus Trust would take them,” said Seth. “Here, I’ll give you their card and you can speak to the Food Donations Coordinator…” He got up and rummaged around in his desk. “They run regular soup kitchens for the homeless community in Oxford and also collect food donations from various businesses in the city. A lot of the cafés and restaurants have surplus food items, which is always appreciated.”
“That’s a brilliant idea!” I said. “I could do that too! Because the tearoom’s reputation is built on fresh baking, I can’t serve stuff that’s over a day old—even though it’s still perfectly good. Cassie and I try to eat as much as we can—” I looked down ruefully at my waistline, “—but we still often have to throw things away. It always makes me feel terrible. Maybe I can set up an arrangement with the Domus Trust to send all ‘leftovers’ to them.”
“I’m sure they’d love it.”
“Okay, I’d better go,” I said. “Muesli is probably going to kill me when I get home. She’ll be starving for her dinner.”
“Give her a back scratch for me,” said Seth with a smile as he accompanied me to the door. I was glad to see that he was looking much more cheerful. With a final wave, I left his room and started down the spiralling college staircase.
***
It was late when I got home and Muesli wasn’t the only one who was starving. I fed her and then was pleased to discover some leftover split-pea soup in the fridge. As I took it out and transferred it to a pot to heat up, I mulled over the mystery again. If Jim was out of the picture, who did that leave as possible suspects for the murderer? Leila Gaber? Joan Barrow? And what about Clyde Peters himself? I couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that the head porter knew more than he was letting on.
While waiting for the soup to heat up, I checked my phone again for any message from my mother. Nothing. I frowned. I’d tried calling her a couple of times earlier but it had gone straight to her answerphone. She’s probably just forgotten to switch her phone back on after getting off the plane, I told myself. Or forgotten to take it off flight mode. I wondered briefly if I should call my father in South Africa, then decided against it. I didn’t want to worry him. I’d wait until tomorrow, at least. If I hadn’t heard from my mother by tomorrow, then I’ll start worrying…
I was pouring the hot soup from the saucepan into a bowl when I became aware of a strange clattering sound. It came sporadically, sometimes softer, sometimes louder, and sounded like metal scraping against something…
I left the kitchen to try and find the source of the sound. Down the hallway… into the living room… I stopped short.
Muesli was hunched over in the corner by the curtains, pawing at something on the floor. As I got closer, I realised it was that vent—the one she had been fixated on before. I remembered my mother complaining about it just before she left. The little tabby had her face pressed against the bars of the ornamental grille, sniffing earnestly. I wondered what was in the crawlspace underneath the house to cause so much interest, then decided with a shudder that I didn’t really want to know. I’d never been down in the cavity beneath the house—it was a typical architectural feature found in many old Victorian houses to help with ventilation—and I imagined that it was full of dead bugs and rats and Heaven knows what else.
Muesli, however, obviously didn’t share my revulsion. She was shoving her nose against the grille and batting it every so often with an impatient paw, making the metal cover rattle in its frame.
“Muesli, stop that—” I started to say, when she gave the grille an extra hard shove and it bounced and shifted sideways out of its frame. Instantly, Muesli stuck her nose into the gap revealed in the corner and pushed the grille cover farther aside. Then, before I realised what she was doing, she had shoved her head and shoulders into the widening gap and started trying to wriggle through.
“Hey!” I cried, running across the room. “Muesli!”
I managed to grab her just before she slipped through the gap. Gosh, I hadn’t realised how small she really was.
“Meorrw!” she cried sulkily as I picked her up and dumped her on a nearby armchair.
She gave me a reproachful look but I ignored her. Instead, I pushed the ornamental grille cover back over the vent, so that it fit securely into its frame. I gave it a prod experimentally. It rattled and shifted slightly. Years of use and general aging must have caused some shifting or deformation of the wooden floor, so that the frame of the vent no longer housed the grille cover perfectly.
I looked around, then saw my mother’s knitting basket nearby. I picked it up and brought it over, plonking it down over the ornamental grille, so that it covered the vent. There, that should do it. When my parents got back, I would ask them what they wanted to do to fix things more permanently.
I straightened and dusted off my hands, shooting Muesli a look of triumph. She turned disdainfully away from me and began washing her face, as if she had never been interested in the vent anyway.
I rolled my eyes. Cats. Leaving her to continue her ablutions in the living room, I headed back to the kitchen where my rapidly cooling soup was still waiting for me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We’re leaving a bit early today, Gemma,” said Mabel, buttoning her coat and wrapping a scarf around her neck.
“Oh, are you going to catch a film?” I said, smiling at the Old Biddies. I knew that they often liked to go to the discounted senior sessions at the cinema in Oxford.
They glanced at each other and I got the sudden impression of naughty children planning something.
“No… We’ve got another engagement,” said Florence formally. “We have to go get ready.”
And with an air of great mystery, the four of them left. I watched their figures tottering away down the village high street. What are they up to? There wasn’t time to ponder it, though. It was the tail end of “afternoon tea” and the tearoom was still full of customers. I flew around, delivering trays of tea and cakes, clearing away cups and plates, taking new orders… Finally, the last customer left with a satisfied smile on their face and I shut the tearoom door and changed the sign over to “CLOSED” with a weary sigh. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes for a moment. It was great that business was so good but oh my goodness, some days were exhausting. My feet were killing me. Maybe I could have a nice soak in a hot bath when I got home…
Then I remembered. Tonight was our first catering job. I would have to deliver all the food for the event before I could go home. It was only a small order but I was excited. It was the next step to growing my business. I knew that word of my Little Stables Tearoom was starting to get out and people were beginning to recommend our wonderful baking. If we could cater a few events—especially Oxford University ones—our reputation would be made. So this first job was a foot in the door.
This one was for a small gallery which had just opened in the village and was having an opening night party. They wanted to support local businesses so they had asked me to provide some food for the event. Nothing too fancy—just some good old British favourites: cakes and buns and such. Cassie had been busy in the kitchen all afternoon and from the smell of baking that was wafting out (and the lack of explosions or screaming) I was hopeful that we would have all the things ready to carry over soon.
Hmm… I tried to remember the layout of the gallery and whether they would have a big enough table for the food to be displayed. If not, we could take our own trestle table. I wondered for a moment if I should call to check, then decided I’d just walk over to see the place for myself. I needed a bit of fresh air, anyway, after being cooped up in the tearoom
all day.
I bundled up quickly and started walking briskly down the village high street, my mind still busy with thoughts of catering. I knew that Eleanor Shaw, the owner of the gallery, was very active in the local church and community groups. A good recommendation from her could bring business from all over Oxfordshire. I smiled to myself, my thoughts turning into a pleasurable daydream. We could become a local institution, with the “Little Stables” name a coveted label on any baking. Maybe I’d start my own line of cakes and buns, packaged with the “Little Stables Tearoom Treats” logo. And we could even get matching napkins and maybe even—
My thoughts were interrupted as I nearly collided into a woman who was leaning against the school fence.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see—”
I broke off as I realised that it was Dora Kempton. Her face was ashen and she seemed to be clinging to the railings with all her strength.
“Dora! What’s the matter? Are you all right?” I reached out to support her.
“I’m fine… fine…” she mumbled, attempting to stand up straight. “Just had… a bit of a turn, that’s all…”
I looked at her sharply. Her face was haggard in the twilight, her eyes dull and strained. The hand that was clutching the fence was shaking slightly. Beneath the worn fabric of her coat, her body felt thin and frail. She was shivering in the cold, and suddenly I realised that she must be starving. I didn’t know for sure but I was willing to bet that she had been fainting from hunger.
“Come on, come back to the tearoom with me,” I said, putting a hand under her elbow.
“No…” Dora protested weakly. “I… I haven’t got my purse with me. I’ve left it at home by mistake…”
“Never mind,” I said briskly, and began hustling her across the road. She was too weak to resist, and within a few moments I had herded her back to the tearoom, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. Cassie looked up in surprise as we entered. She was standing at the big wooden table in the centre of the room, elbow-deep in flour, with white smudges on her nose and forehead. Her hair was sticking out wildly from her head and she looked completely frazzled.
“When was the last time you ate anything, Dora?” I said as I helped her to a chair by the table.
She flushed and looked away. “I… I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.” She dropped gratefully into the chair, mumbling, “Thank you. I’ll be fine in a moment… I just needed to rest a bit, that’s all.”
I ignored her and went over to the sideboard, where I cut a thick wedge from the remainder of a lemon meringue cheesecake on a platter there. I transferred this to a plate while I set the kettle to boil and it was soon whistling merrily. I filled a warmed teapot with fresh tea leaves and added hot water, then let it brew for a few minutes before pouring out a cup of the rich red brew. I took this and the plate of cake over to Dora, setting it down in front of her.
“Would you like milk with your tea?”
“I…” she trailed off, her eyes going hungrily to the plate. Then she straightened her shoulders and sat back resolutely, her mouth compressed in a thin line. “I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity!” I said impatiently. “It’s being environmental. The tearoom is closed now and I would have to throw this out if it’s not eaten. I can’t serve it tomorrow.” I pushed the cake closer to her and softened my voice. “Go on, have some.”
She hesitated, then finally, as if she couldn’t help herself, she picked up the fork and cut a piece off the edge of the cake. I watched her raise the fork to her mouth and swallow the piece hungrily. Then she picked up the teacup and took a gulp of the hot tea, inhaling the fragrant steam with a sigh of pleasure. Without a word, I loaded another plate with some of our leftover finger sandwiches and a (very slightly burnt) Chelsea bun, and set it in front of her.
Dora hesitated again, then said quietly, “Thank you,” and began to eat.
I averted my eyes politely and went over to Cassie, who seemed to be having some kind of meltdown.
“I don’t know what happened!” she said. “I’m sure I followed the recipe exactly!” She stared in dismay at the Victoria sponge cake in front of her—or what should have been a fluffy, moist sponge cake, except that the middle of the cake had somehow caved in. It looked like a crusty brown volcanic crater.
“We can’t serve that,” I said in dismay.
“Maybe if we add some frosting on top, no one will notice?” Cassie said hopefully.
I looked at her in exasperation. “Cassie! A blind person would notice that crater in the middle of the cake!”
“What are we going to do?” Cassie wailed, clasping her hands to her face. “This is for the gallery party that we’re catering this evening.”
I gasped. “What? I thought you made the cake for that already!”
Cassie looked a bit shamefaced. “I did… But when I tasted it, I realised I must have used salt instead of sugar,” she said sheepishly. “So I thought I’d just make up another one really quickly. After all, it doesn’t take that long to bake and I whacked up the oven temperature higher than normal—I thought it would bake faster—and I kept checking it—but then this happened!”
I wanted to roll my eyes but I knew I was in no position to complain. It was exactly the kind of thing I would do too.
“What are we going to do, though?” I said, starting to panic. “They’re expecting the food any minute. We haven’t got the time to bake another cake. And the Victorian sponge was supposed to be the centrepiece!”
“You could simply cut the middle of the cake out,” came a calm voice from the other side of the table.
We both looked up in surprise to see Dora Kempton regarding us kindly. I had completely forgotten that she was there.
“You could turn it into a ring cake,” she said.
“A what?” Cassie gaped at her, completely lost.
“Have you got a sharp knife?”
I picked one out from the knife block next to the sink. “Will this do?”
Dora nodded. “Just cut out a circle in the middle of the sponge and remove the crusty dry brown sections. Then frost the rest of the cake and serve. No one will be any wiser. In fact, you could even fill the hole in the middle with fresh fruit and some whipped cream on top. It will look very attractive and novel.”
I smiled. “That sounds like a brilliant idea! Oh, and we’ve got some fresh Blenheim Orange apples from a local farm,” I said. “We can slice some up, arrange them in a swirl in the centre, and drizzle some honey on top. It would go really nicely with the theme of the exhibition, which is celebrating local Cotswolds bounty.”
Cassie was looking more hopeful. “Yeah! And we could also add some—” She stopped and sniffed the air. “Wait… is something burning?”
She gasped and ran to the oven, yanking the door open. Smoke billowed out.
“Noooo!” Cassie wailed, flapping her arms around. I ran over and grabbed an oven glove. A few minutes later, we stood looking in deep dismay at the crammed baking tray on the wooden table.
“Um… What were you trying to make, Cassie?” I said.
“A lemon drizzle cake,” said Cassie forlornly. “It sounded so easy from the recipe. And also some chocolate fudge fairy cakes. These are for the gallery party and I was running late, so I thought I’d just put them all in to bake together—that would speed things up. But why have they all gone hard and crusty and cracked?”
Dora spoke up from the other end of the table. “That often happens if the oven is overcrowded and it gets too hot.”
I wanted to berate my best friend but I could see that Cassie was upset enough already. She was blinking back tears and I had never seen her look so defeated.
“Oh God… look at that hideous bump!” she whispered, staring at the lemon drizzle cake, which had a bump like a huge pimple in the centre of it, covered with an ugly, cracked brown crust.
Dora stood up and came over to us. She prodded the cake with an expert finger. “I
t feels all right aside from that. Just slice this bump off, then flip it over and ice the bottom. It should still taste fine and no one will notice.”
“What about these?” I said, looking in horror at the lumps of ugly fairy cakes. “They’re supposed to be soft and moist… These have gone completely dry and cracked, and the edges are burnt.”
Dora Kempton pushed her sleeves back. “Get me a chopping board and a knife,” she said. “And some whipped cream, ice cream, and several large glasses. And have you got any berries?”
“I haven’t got fresh berries but I’ve got some lovely forest berry compote from one of the local farms,” I said.
“That’ll do nicely. Get those things for me.”
Cassie and I hurried to comply. Then we watched in fascination as Dora expertly cut the fairy cakes up. She discarded the burned sections, then sliced the remaining chocolate fudge into bit-sized chunks. These she put into the large glasses, layered with the rich berry compote, whipped cream, and home-made ice cream until it turned into a delicious-looking trifle. Finally, she got some chocolate flakes and sprinkled them on top. The result was amazing.
“Wow…” I said. My own mouth was watering. “They look incredible, Dora. I want one for myself!”
“Here,” said Dora, making up a last glass with the leftover bits of chocolate fudge fairy cake and a dollop of the other ingredients. She handed this to me and Cassie and we took turns spooning from the concoction whilst she stored the other glasses in the chiller.
“Ooh, delicious!” Cassie smacked her lips.
It was. You would never believe that something which was such a baking disaster could turn into something that tasted so heavenly.
“Are you sure you used to be a scout?” I said jokingly. “These look like the work of a professional baker!”
Dora’s stern face broke into a rare smile. “My mother used to love baking,” she said. “I used to help her a lot as a little girl, and I just kept on doing it as I got older. I find it relaxing.”
