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

by H. Y. Hanna

  I remembered Seth mentioning that Jim had lost his family, but I hadn’t been paying much attention to it at the time. Now, my heart skipped a beat as a terrible suspicion began to dawn on me.

  “What happened to her?” I asked urgently.

  Owen grimaced. “’It and run it was. Killed ’is girlfriend outright and they couldn’t save the baby she was carryin’ either.”

  “Did they catch the driver?”

  “No, that was the worst part for Jim, I think. They never found the driver and made ’im pay. Some local drunk, probably, drivin’ when ’e was over the limit. ’It ’is girlfriend just outside the train station—she’d come from Reading to see Jim and was just goin’ back, you see. And what was even worse was that Jim couldn’t even go to her funeral. She was married, you see—she was plannin’ to leave ’er ’usband for Jim—but they were keepin’ it quiet, like, until she told the ’usband. Well, after the accident, there was all this stuff in the papers about ’er bein’ a lovin’ wife and expectin’ a new baby… Jim couldn’t spoil ’er name and memory by tellin’ everyone that she was leavin’ her ’usband and the baby was ’is. But ’e couldn’t handle it—lost ’is job, ’is house, started takin’ pills… then ’e left Oxford.”

  “Oh my God…” I whispered, my thoughts reeling. I remembered suddenly that conversation Lincoln and I had had with Clyde Peters on the night of the Oxford Society of Medicine dinner. The head porter had said then that Barrow wouldn’t drive anymore after “a bad accident” and always requested a taxi…

  “How do you know all this?” I said to Owen.

  “Jim opened up to me once,” said the homeless man. “I was takin’ Ruby for a walk down by the canal and came across ’im under one of the bridges. We had a smoke together. Friday a week ago, it was, I think. ’E was in a strange mood that mornin’. Was really worked up about somethin’ but when I asked ’im, ’e wouldn’t tell me about it—just said that ’e had a drink with a friend from ’is old college the night before and that the chickens were comin’ ’ome to roost.” Owen shrugged. “Dunno what ’e meant by that.”

  Friday a week ago was the day of Professor Barrow’s murder, I realised. What if Jim had had a drink the night before with Clyde Peters—the “friend from his old college”—who mentioned Barrow’s drunk driving accident? The head porter liked to gossip and Leila Gaber’s recent campaign might have brought the subject of the old professor’s drinking problem to mind. Somehow, Jim must have put two and two together…

  I thought of the expression Owen said Jim had used: “The chickens were coming home to roost”—yes, he had decided that it was time Barrow paid for what he had done…

  My mind whirled as I suddenly remembered something else. Something Dora had said the day I asked her who could have known about the hidden staircase at Wadsworth. Clyde Peters, she had said, and some of the other porters who used to work at the college, including a James Price. James… Jim…

  I walked away from the homeless man and his dog in a daze.

  “What is it, Gemma?” said Lincoln, hurrying after me. “You’ve gone really pale. Are you all right?”

  “Yes… Yes, I’m fine, Lincoln. I…I just realised something…” I stopped and turned around to face him. “I’ve been looking in the wrong direction—Jim is the murderer!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Jim? The tramp?” said Lincoln. “But I thought you said it couldn’t be him because of the timeframe? There was only a six-minute gap in which the murder could have taken place and that was too short a time for Jim to make it from the Cloisters to the main gate—”

  “But not if he knew about the secret staircase!” I cried. “He could have easily done the deed, escaped from the Cloisters, and got out, to be seen on the CCTV footage on the street across from the college gate at 12:23 a.m. All this time, I’d been thinking of Clyde Peters telling Richard Barrow about the hidden staircase but I hadn’t thought of another person who could have known about the staircase as well—Clyde’s old friend and colleague, James Price!”

  Lincoln looked at me, completely lost.

  I hurried to explain. “Clyde Peters was last seen in his local pub having a drink with an ‘old friend’—someone who used to work in Oxford and had some connection to an Oxford college, according to the landlord and barmaid I spoke to. Dora mentioned some of the porters who used to work at the college and who would have known about the hidden staircase, before it was boarded up—amongst them, a James Price. I’m willing to bet that Jim was—is—James Price.” I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. “And he murdered Barrow. Not to help the homeless or any other great cause—no, it was much more personal than that. I was right when I felt that this crime was about revenge and something that Barrow had done a long time ago. But I got it wrong. It wasn’t something between him and Clyde Peters—it was between him and another porter at Wadsworth. A porter called James Price, whose pregnant girlfriend was killed in a hit-and-run accident many years ago. Barrow was the drunk driver.”

  “How can you know all that?”

  “I don’t,” I admitted. “But I’m pretty certain I’m right… It all fits! Clyde Peters mentioned that Barrow stopped driving after a bad accident. He didn’t say what kind of accident but with Barrow’s reputation for drunken behaviour, I wouldn’t be surprised… I’m going to ask Glenda!” I said suddenly. “Clyde Peters might have mentioned something to her during their dinner date. Let me ask her…”

  I tried her phone but got no reply, so I rang the tearoom. Cassie answered.

  “Hey, Cass, can you put Glenda on? I need to ask her something.”

  “You’ve just missed her,” said Cassie. “She left a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh? I thought the Old Biddies said they were staying until the tearoom closed today.”

  “They were, but then Glenda got a phone call from some chap asking her to meet him.”

  “Some chap?”

  “Yeah, apparently he knew something about Clyde Peters’s murder, but he would only tell her in person. The Old Biddies all got really excited and rushed out.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I was starting to have a bad feeling about this. “Glenda hasn’t gone to meet him alone, has she?”

  “Well, she was supposed to, but the other Old Biddies said they weren’t missing out on the fun so they decided to all go, but the other three would follow her at a distance.”

  “Where have they gone? Do you know?”

  “Jericho, down by the canal, I think. I heard them arguing about which bus would drop them closest to Canal Street.”

  “Okay, listen, Cassie: if they ring back, tell them that Glenda is in danger. That the man she’s going to meet might be the murderer.”

  “What? But how do you—”

  “I can’t explain now,” I said. “Just make sure Glenda knows that she mustn’t meet him alone under any circumstances!”

  I hung up before Cassie could reply, then tried Glenda’s number again myself. It went to an answering service again. I tried the other Old Biddies but none of them were answering. I let out a sigh of frustration and looked up to see Lincoln standing patiently next to me, an expression of bewilderment on his face. Quickly, I told him about the situation.

  “But… why do you think Glenda might be in danger?” said Lincoln. “Do you think this man who called her is Jim?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Don’t ask me how—it’s… it’s a hunch, I guess. But I just feel… that there’s something ‘off’ here…”

  “But even if it is Jim, why would he want to harm her?”

  “I… I can’t explain!” I said helplessly. “Maybe he questioned Clyde Peters before he killed him and found out that the porter had been telling Glenda things… and he’s not sure what she knows…” I paused as I suddenly remembered something. “Oh God! That time I went to see him by the canal, the Old Biddies were with me and they were being their usual nosy selves. I remember Jim ye
lling at Glenda, asking her why she was staring at him… I don’t know—I mean, he doesn’t sound like the most balanced character, does he? Maybe he got paranoid that she’s snooping around him and knows too much and might expose him…”

  “Doesn’t she have her friends with her?” said Lincoln.

  I made an impatient gesture. “Yes, but what can they do? They’re little old ladies. Besides, if they don’t realise who he really is, they won’t be on their guard…” I gripped my hands together, trying to quell a rising wave of panic. “We’ve got to warn them, especially Glenda, before she meets him. Oh God, I hope she doesn’t get hurt. I’ll never forgive myself—”

  I whirled suddenly and started for the rear of the square.

  “Wait! Gemma! Where are you going?” said Lincoln, hurrying to keep up with me.

  “I’m going down to the canal,” I said. “I’m going to look for the Old Biddies myself. They walk fairly slowly. I’m sure I can catch up with them if I run. It’ll take me too long to get the car and drive up to Jericho, but there’s a shortcut to the canal from the back of Gloucester Green—down Hythe Bridge Street. That’s the way we went last time. I can search along the canal until I come to the stretch by Jericho and I might meet them there.”

  Lincoln put a hand on my arm. “Wait, Gemma… maybe you should call the police.”

  I started to disagree, thinking of the time wasted in explanations and proving that I wasn’t a prank call—then I remembered Devlin.

  “Yes! I must tell Devlin about this. He might be able to find them faster.”

  My fingers fumbled as I dug out my phone and tried to dial the number. I had to force myself to stop and take a deep breath before continuing. I was relieved when Devlin answered on the first ring.

  “Gemma? What’s wrong?” he said as soon as he heard my voice. Devlin had always been able to pick up on my feelings instantly.

  “It’s Jim, Devlin!” I said, my words tumbling over themselves. “He’s the murderer! He used to be a porter at Wadsworth… he worked with Clyde Peters… and his girlfriend… she was killed in a car accident… hit and run… and she was carrying Jim’s baby… and he’s been away from Oxford for years… but… but he came back… and he found out… I think Clyde Peters told him… about Barrow and the drunk driving and—”

  “Whoa, slow down, Gemma,” said Devlin. “How do you know all this?”

  “I haven’t got time to explain now,” I rushed on. “Glenda Bailey might be in danger! Jim called her and asked her to meet him alone. I think he might have found out that she had dinner with Clyde Peters the night before he was killed… and maybe she knows too much—”

  “Where is she meeting him?”

  “Down by the canal, but I’m not sure which section. Maybe around Jericho. We can start searching from this end of the canal—we’re in Gloucester Green now—but maybe you can—”

  “We?”

  “Me and Lincoln.”

  “Right.” He paused and I knew that Devlin must have been jumping to conclusions. I wanted to explain but there was no time.

  “Okay, you start from that end of the canal. I’m out of Oxford at the moment but I’ve got the car, so I’ll start from the north end and work my way down,” Devlin said briskly. “Listen, you told me you tracked Jim down by the canal a few days ago and spoke to him—where was that?”

  “Um… by… by Frenchay Road Bridge,” I said, remembering.

  “Then I’ll start there.”

  “Oh God, Devlin, what if he does something to Glenda—”

  “He won’t.” His calm, authoritative voice was reassuring. “We’ll find her first. Don’t think about it, Gemma. Just focus on searching along the canal. Go now.”

  ***

  The light was fading rapidly, bathing everything in a grey gloom, and I found myself cursing the short winter days in England again. I jogged along the tow path, straining to look ahead. It was a completely different scene to when I visited only a few days ago: the canal was dark and murky, and the weeping willows looked sinister in the fading light, their trailing leaves hanging like ghoulish arms over the black water.

  The tow path stretched empty ahead of us; in summer, this might have been a busy thoroughfare even at this time, but in the late afternoon on a chilly January evening, nobody wanted to be here on this damp muddy path by the canal. Even the most dedicated dog walkers and avid tourists were tucked up warmly indoors.

  There was no sound except for my own harsh breathing and Lincoln’s footsteps pounding behind me. The tow path was too narrow for the two of us to run side by side safely and I wondered if I should let him go ahead, although I was running as fast as I could and I didn’t think he could go much faster in the dark either. The path was treacherous, wet, and slippery from the recent rain, and it would have been only too easy to slip and go over the bank into the icy water of the canal.

  The branch of a hawthorn tree fell across my path, the leaves scraping across my cheek, and then a ramp loomed out of the darkness. It was the bridge over Isis Lock, empty now of all the tourists and families who had been taking photos and admiring the scene. I was up and over it in a flash, grabbing hold of the parapet to steady myself as I rounded the curve of the bridge and ran down the steep incline on the other side, Lincoln right behind me. I skidded slightly as I hit the tow path again and felt Lincoln’s hand reach out to steady me.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I panted. “Thanks.”

  I took off again at a quick jog. We raced past the Jericho boatyard and the tall blocks of the former ironworks foundry, barely discernible in the dark sky. Still we saw no one, and the canal boats moored along the banks had their windows and doors closed and shuttered against the cold, like dozens of blank eyes.

  We came across a figure in a hoodie: a youth with his head down, nodding in time to music in his earphones, oblivious to the world. I thought of pausing to ask him if he had seen the Old Biddies, then I realised that he was facing the same way we were and going in the same direction. If we hadn’t passed them, he wouldn’t have either.

  Darting around him, I ran on, pressing a hand to my side as a stitch began to bother me. My legs were starting to ache as well. I was in terrible shape. Working in a tearoom all day (and eating a lot of cakes and buns) obviously didn’t do much for your athletic fitness. I wished now that I’d followed up my New Year’s Resolution of regular jogging…

  It was getting even darker now and I felt panic rise in my chest. Where were the Old Biddies? Why hadn’t we seen them yet? How long had we been running? I knew that Frenchay Road Bridge was about thirty minutes from the start of the canal, at a comfortable walking pace, but we were now running as fast as we could. Surely we should have almost been there by now? The walk along the tow path had seemed so pleasant and easy that day in the sunshine—now, it seemed interminably long.

  A humpbacked bridge loomed up suddenly out of the darkness. My heart gave a leap of hope, then I realised that it was the one before Frenchay Road Bridge.

  “Almost there!” I gasped over my shoulder.

  Lincoln didn’t reply, although I could hear his footsteps behind me. I ducked under the bridge, passed through the darkness, and came out on the other side. The path had become more overgrown, with large puddles and muddy patches, and I had to concentrate harder to keep my footing.

  Then I saw it—a large red brick structure in the distance, one side scrawled with graffiti. Frenchay Road Bridge. There was movement ahead of me, on the tow path by the bridge. It was hard to see in the gathering dark, but I thought I could make out two figures. Then as I got closer, I recognised one as Glenda. I felt relief wash through me. She was all right. I’d been panicking for nothing—

  The figure next to her moved. He was much bigger and I caught a glimpse of reddish hair. Jim. Glenda looked tiny, like a child, standing next to him.

  I opened my mouth to call to Glenda, but before I could say anything, Jim lunged towards her. I watched in horror as h
is hands came up round her shoulders and he grabbed her, shoving her towards the edge of the canal and the icy black water beneath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Glenda!” I screamed.

  From the bushes at the side of the path ahead of me, three other small figures erupted: Mabel, Florence, and Ethel. They ran towards Jim and surrounded him, shouting and hitting him with their handbags. He faltered in surprise, but only for a moment. Then he swung around with an angry oath and cuffed one of the Old Biddies.

  I gasped as I saw Ethel go flying, hitting the side of the bridge and crumpling to a heap on the ground. Florence gave a cry of alarm and ran to her side, whilst Mabel shrieked with anger and slapped ineffectually at Jim’s shoulder. He ignored her, his hands still around Glenda’s shoulders. She was flailing now, desperately trying to keep her balance on the edge of the bank. Any minute, she would go over.

  “Glenda!” I cried, starting towards her.

  Someone shoved me gently aside and then Lincoln overtook me, his longer legs closing the distance faster. But even as he passed me, I saw another figure race along the bridge above them.

  Devlin!

  He gave a yell as he looked over the bridge and saw Jim with Glenda, then my heart stopped as Devlin flung himself over the side the bridge. I thought for a moment that he would go into the canal, but he dropped onto the tow path, crashing into Jim.

  The tramp let go of Glenda and reeled backwards, a stream of ugly curses spilling from his mouth. Glenda cried out, tottered slightly, then slipped on the bank and went down.

  Mabel lunged for her and managed to grab an arm, holding on tightly as her own feet slipped in the mud. Then Lincoln was there. He reached down and grabbed Glenda’s other arm, helping Mabel pull her out of the water.

  I stood paralysed for a moment, the whole scene unfolding in front of me like a slow-motion nightmare, then I snapped out of it and ran to the water’s edge. Glenda lay gasping and panting on the bank, her clothes sodden. Mabel was next to her, her usually formidable face grey with fright. They were both shivering.