by H. Y. Hanna
“It was his day off yesterday but he wasn’t at home. I left messages for him but he hasn’t returned them yet. He should have been back in the Porter’s Lodge at Wadsworth this morning, but he hasn’t turned up, apparently. No one has any idea where he is.”
I frowned. “I saw him on Wednesday night—the day before yesterday…”
“Where?”
“At Gees, when I was there with Lincoln…” I faltered slightly. “You know, when I told you what Glenda Bailey had found out from Clyde Peters… that was there. I saw them having dinner together.”
“You didn’t tell me you were there yourself as well.” Devlin’s voice was carefully neutral.
“No, well, I… I didn’t get a chance. I just wanted to get you that information about Richard Barrow first… and then you had to dash off…”
I was stammering, embarrassed, defensive, and I was irritated with myself. Why should I have felt guilty about being on a date with another man? Like I told Cassie, it wasn’t as if Devlin and I had actually made a commitment to each other yet. Still, I couldn’t help the colour that crept to my cheeks and I was glad Devlin couldn’t see me.
I cleared my throat and continued, as nonchalantly as possible, “So Clyde Peters was certainly fine on Wednesday night. Didn’t anyone see him yesterday?”
“My sergeant is questioning some of his neighbours and colleagues now. It might be nothing; he might have gone away on a fishing trip or something and got held up coming back, although it’s odd that he hasn’t contacted the college to let them know. According to the college offices, he’s incredibly conscientious—almost pedantic—and in all his forty years of duty at the college, he’s only ever been late to work twice. Both times, it was due to things outside his control, like a traffic accident on the roads—but he always contacted them.”
“You think something’s happened to him,” I said.
“I think Clyde Peters is in a position to know a lot about who was where on the night of the murder. Perhaps too much for his own safety.”
“And… you don’t think he might be the murderer himself?” I asked, voicing the thought that had been at the back of my mind. “I mean, we’ve all been focusing on everyone else, but Peters was there that night as well and nobody suspects him because he’s the college porter. It was very convenient that he happened to discover Seth just at the moment when Seth was standing there holding the knife,” I said bitterly. “If he was looking for a scapegoat and another suspect to distract the police, he practically had it handed to him on a plate…”
“Maybe.” Devlin sounded sceptical again. “But a lot of things don’t add up. For one thing, if Peters was really keen to hide his little guest room scam from the college authorities, the last thing he would want to do is bring attention to the fact that he was in the Cloisters at that time. Sooner or later, we would have double-checked why he was there and his lame excuse of making a college round wouldn’t have really washed. The truth would come out very quickly. No, I think it would have been more in his interests—if he had committed the murder—to quietly return to the Porter’s Lodge and wait until the murder was discovered by someone else, when he was a safe distance away from the whole thing.
“And besides,” Devlin continued. “He has no motive. There’s no reason why he would want Barrow dead.”
“Maybe there’s a motive we haven’t discovered yet,” I persisted. “Maybe there’s some connection between him and Barrow going way back… They’ve both been at Wadsworth for a long time. Maybe… maybe… it’s revenge! For something Barrow did to Peters, long ago.”
“Yes, but why wait until now to get vengeance?”
I blew out a breath of frustration. “We seem to just keep going around in circles on this case!”
“Welcome to the real world of detective work,” Devlin said with a dry laugh. “It’s only in mystery novels that you get clues laid out for you to find and everything gets solved quickly with a nice ribbon on top.”
There was a beep and Devlin said, “Hold on, I’ve just had a message…” A long pause, then he returned to the line: “My sergeant has just informed me that he’s picked up a lead. Clyde Peters was seen at his local pub late last night. I’ve got an interview set up with the landlord this afternoon… I’ve got to stop by the police station here in Reading first, but I’ll catch the next train back to Oxford after that.”
“Can I come?” I said eagerly.
Devlin made an exasperated noise. “Gemma. You know I’m not even supposed to be sharing the details of the investigation with you. I called you this morning as a special favour in return for yesterday, but don’t start getting any ideas. No, this is a police interview and you can’t come. You should know better than to even ask.”
“Fine,” I said, annoyed. “I suppose I’ll have to wait to read about the arrest in the papers!”
Devlin chuckled. “You know what your problem is, Gemma? You don’t like not being in control. You want to be involved in everything and you just can’t bear it if you’re not in the driver’s seat. Look, you’ve been a big help and I appreciate it, but you’ve got to step back now and let the police do their job.”
His laughter grated on my nerves and I hung up before I would say something I regretted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The phone call with Devlin had made me late for work, but I was relieved to see that Cassie was already there when I arrived. She was showing Dora around the kitchen with a pride that was almost comical, given her complete inability to use any of the equipment she was talking about.
I was impressed with how quickly Dora took everything on board and instantly began working on the first batch of scones. An hour later the gorgeous smell of fresh baking was filling the kitchen and Cassie and I watched eagerly through the oven window as the little mounds of scone dough slowly rose, their tops smooth and golden brown, their sides beautifully scalloped. I could feel my mouth watering just looking at them, as the warm, buttery smell of baking filled my nostrils.
“They’re not going to bake faster if you watch them, you know,” came Dora’s amused voice from behind us.
I turned to see her standing comfortably at the wooden table, her hands covered in flour, expertly kneading a huge slab of dough. Already, she looked so at home—as if she had always been there—and I felt a deep sense of happiness and relief at having found my baking chef at last.
As if reading my thoughts, Dora gave me a whimsical smile and said, “I’d forgotten how good it is to have something to do. I’m not made to be idle. Funny—when I was working at Wadsworth, I used to wish for the time when I could retire, but when I really stopped working, I found that I missed it terribly. I guess you get used to a routine.”
Her mention of Wadsworth stirred something in my mind. “Dora…” I said, going across to her. “When you were working at the college, did you ever hear of any hidden passages or secret staircases?”
She looked surprised. “Secret staircases?”
I gave a sheepish smile. “I know, it sounds a bit silly. But I thought… well, a lot of Oxford colleges seem to have them… I just wondered if Wadsworth might have had one too.”
She frowned. “Well, I don’t know about secret passages, but there was an old staircase which led from the Porter’s Lodge through the back of the tower and into the Cloisters behind it.”
My pulse quickened. “I’d never heard of it. Is it still in use?”
“No, it’s been closed for years. In fact, I remember it being closed up about a year after I started working there. It had fallen into disrepair and it was too dangerous to use and not worth the expense of restoring. So they decided to close it up—didn’t want the students finding it and having an accident, especially when they get a bit drunk and rowdy after a party.”
I stared at her, my thoughts racing. “And who would have known about this staircase?”
She shrugged. “Some of the older members of the staff, I guess. The porters in the Lodge, old Clyde Peters,
Darrel Wood, James Price… young Dave Malvern—Skinny Dave, we used to call him, all arms and legs he was—gosh, he’d be coming up for middle age now, fancy that—how time flies!” Her face broke into a soft smile of reminiscing. “He left to work for Oxford University Press… wonder how he’s getting on? And some of the other older scouts, of course, such as my friend, Agnes… The newer members of the staff wouldn’t know about it—it would have been boarded up and we didn’t have much reason to mention it.”
“So Clyde Peters would definitely have known about this staircase?”
Dora’s face soured and she pursed her lips. “That old woman? Yes, I’m sure he would; he was a great one for always sticking his nose into everything and being a general busybody. Besides, the entrance to the staircase was behind a panel at the back of the porter’s office in the Lodge.”
I sank down on one of the chairs by the wooden table, my mind working furiously. According to everybody, Clyde Peters was a bit of an old gossip and probably inclined to talk and show off. I was willing to bet that he had told Richard Barrow about the hidden staircase—either earlier when he was showing the professor’s younger brother the guest room or when he was helping Richard escape after the murder. Maybe he had even been in cahoots with Richard—perhaps the latter had offered to pay him a sum of money to help get rid of his brother…
Clyde Peters had all the answers. If only we could have found out where he was! Then I thought of Devlin and his interview with the pub landlord in Abingdon—the pub where the head porter had last been seen… I chafed at the thought of sitting here, waiting, waiting, while Devlin got crucial information about the case…
I sprang up from my chair. “Cassie, listen—do you think you can manage for a bit by yourself? I need to pop out to do something.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Cassie. “Now that Dora’s here, I haven’t really got anything to do in the kitchen anyway, so I’ll be out with the customers.” She looked at me curiously. “Where are you going?”
I hesitated. Cassie could be so volatile—and she was so emotionally involved in this case—that I wasn’t sure how much I should tell her.
“Oh… just a possible lead on the case,” I said lightly.
Cassie’s eyes lit up. She followed me out of the tearoom and stood on the front step, rubbing her arms against the cold, watching me as I unlocked and mounted my bike.
“Is this a lead on the real murderer?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said cautiously.
“Gemma, we’ve got to get somewhere soon,” she said. “Have you seen Seth lately? I went to see him last night—he’s lost so much weight! I think he’s getting depressed. I spent a couple of hours with him and he hardly said anything to me. And then he rushed me out, as if he had to go somewhere…”
“Well, maybe he did have to go somewhere.”
She frowned. “Yes, but he was being really furtive about it. I mean, he wouldn’t give me any details and that’s not like him at all—if anything, he’s usually trying to get me to go along to some obscure university society thing with him. I tried teasing him about it but he hardly responded. It was like he was afraid of letting me know what he was going to do. Gemma, we’ve been friends for yonks! Seth never keeps secrets from me!”
I gave Cassie a wry look. In fact, Seth had kept one very big secret from her for a very long time: he’d been secretly in love with her ever since the day they met. For someone who claimed to be an expert on romantic affairs, Cassie was pretty oblivious to what was going on right underneath her own nose.
Still, I could understand why Seth had never got the courage to confess his feelings. Cassie was beautiful and vivacious and had hordes of men eating out of her hands. It was easy to see why someone as diffident and studious as Seth would never have dared dream that he might have a chance with her.
“Cut him some slack,” I said gently. “Seth’s under a lot of strain at the moment. He’s probably not himself.”
Cassie sighed and stood watching, a troubled expression on her face, as I waved to her, then pushed off and cycled away.
***
Abingdon was an old market town to the south of Oxford, famous for Morris dancing and its quaint tradition of “bun throwing”—when the local dignitaries would throw buns into the assembled crowds from the roof of the Country Hall Museum on specific days of celebration, such as royal marriages, coronations, and jubilees. Apparently the museum there had a collection of dried buns from throwings dating back to the 19th century. I shuddered to think of them.
I had been worried at first that I wouldn’t be able to find the pub. Devlin hadn’t mentioned the name, just that it was Clyde Peters’s “local”. Well, I might not have all the resources available to the police, but I had other tricks up my sleeve. A quick call to Glenda Bailey and a few moments later I had the name of Clyde Peters’s favourite pub: The Goose and Feather in Abingdon.
I saw the landlord as soon as I walked in. He was behind the bar, fiddling with one of the beer taps. He looked up as I approached him, a practised smile on his face.
“Drink or lunch?” he said.
I gave him a smile in return. “Neither, actually. I was hoping you might have a moment to chat.”
“About what?”
“One of your regulars—Clyde Peters.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You from the CID? I was told the detective would be in to see me this afternoon.”
I looked at him, thinking quickly. Despite his hale and hearty appearance—the big paunch, beefy arms, and rosy-cheeked face—I could see the wary expression in his eyes as he assessed me. The image of the jolly bartender was deceptive; here was a careful, shrewd businessman who would never speak to me unless he thought I had some kind of authority. I hesitated, then made an impulsive decision.
“Yes, I work with Detective O’Connor.” It wasn’t really a lie, I thought. I’m not trying to impersonate the police—it’s not my fault if he assumes more than I meant.
The landlord looked at me silently for a moment—so long that I thought he was going to call me a liar—then he said, “Well, now, what d’you want to know?”
“Clyde Peters was in here last night?”
“Usual table there, in the corner.” He nodded towards the far end of the pub.
“Was he alone?”
“He was when I saw him. But I had to pop out for a bit last night—problem at home with the Missus—so my barmaid, Jenny, took over for a while until I got back. I can call her, if you like.”
“Please.”
A young girl with wispy blonde hair and a mouth full of gum responded to his summons. She screwed up her face in an effort to remember.
“Dunno… it was real busy in here last night. I wasn’t payin’ much attention to the customers, if ya know what I mean. Just takin’ orders and deliverin’ drinks. Oh yeah, I think I remember old Clyde,” she said, chewing the gum. “Over in the corner.”
“Was he alone the whole night?” I asked again
She frowned. “Not sure. No… I think there might have been a chap with him at one point.”
“Did you recognise him?”
She shook his head. “Dunno. Didn’t get a proper look at him. Had his back to the room and was wearing a beanie and a coat.”
“Do you know if he was a friend of Clyde Peters?” I asked, fishing desperately.
She shrugged. “Dunno. I was rushed off my feet last night and like I said, I wasn’t payin’ much attention to the customers—just the orders… I did hear him say somethin’ when I stopped by to collect the empty glasses from their table.”
“What?” I asked eagerly.
“Somethin’ ’bout Oxford,” she said.
Great. That was a big help. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Like… as a tourist? Or did he sound like he lived there?”
She shrugged again. “Dunno. Something ’bout things lookin’ different on Cornmarket. And he mentioned a college…”
“Clyde is the head porte
r at one of the Oxford colleges,” the landlord put in helpfully. “He’s worked there for years and met a lot of people in the course of his job.”
“You think maybe this stranger used to work in Oxford—maybe even at the college—and he and Clyde were old friends?”
“Dunno.” The girl shrugged and looked bored.
I sighed and gave up.
The landlord said, obviously trying to make up for his barmaid’s lack of effort, “Or maybe this chap visited the college before when Clyde was workin’ there? A porter would meet a lot of the visitors to a college.”
I nodded and tried another tack. “Did you see if they left together?”
I thought the girl was going to say “Dunno” again and I had to restrain myself from shaking her—but she frowned and said, “No, this chap left first, I think. Yeah, that’s right—Clyde stayed on for another pint. Didn’t leave until closin’ time.”
“Yes, I was back by then,” the landlord chimed in. “I took that last order.”
“Was he drunk when he left?”
“He had a couple—was a bit merry—but I wouldn’t call him drunk.” The landlord looked at me curiously. “Why all these questions? Is Clyde in some kind of trouble?”
“We’re just gathering information at this point,” I said, assuming my best police press-release voice. “We’ve been trying to locate Mr Peters to speak to him in connection to a case, but we haven’t been able to locate him yet.”
The landlord raised his eyebrows. “Have you tried his college—Wadsworth? Clyde practically lives there.”
“Yes, we have, but we haven’t been able to get hold of him there either.” I leaned forwards. “So nothing strange or suspicious happened last night? Clyde didn’t get into any fights or mention being worried or scared about anything…?”
