All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel: Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 0)

by H. Y. Hanna

  Cassie’s hand twitched and I grabbed it before she could slap his face.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He shrugged. “Your loss, hon. Anyway… I’ll see you tomorrow. I think I’ll come back for some breakfast.” He winked at her. “But you know where to find me tonight if you change your mind.” He included me in his parting smirk, then picked up the bag of scones and strolled out of the tearoom.

  Cassie let out a growl of frustration. “I hope he bloody chokes on those scones!”

  I realised that the entire dining room was silent and looked up to see everyone staring at us. I felt my cheeks redden, but forced a smile to my face and said as breezily as I could, “Show’s over, folks!”

  A few people laughed awkwardly and the moment passed. I gave Cassie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she went off into the kitchen to fetch the next order. Then I turned to deal with the next customers at the counter. It was the Old Biddies, coming to settle their bill as they were hurrying off to catch a matinee show at the cinema in Oxford.

  Glenda held out a half-finished plate of scones. “Can you put these in a bag for me, dear? I couldn’t quite finish them, but I know my great-nephew would love to have some.”

  I wrapped up the scones, put their bills through, and watched them leave with some relief. The rest of the lunch hour passed in a blur as Cassie and I raced to take orders and serve the tables. I was pleased that the place was so busy—it was a great sign. Still, I was glad when the lunchtime rush was over and I could sit down and catch my breath. My stomach growled and I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly three o’clock. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning. I threw a quick look around the room. There were only two tables occupied at present: an elderly couple by the windows and a lone young man poring over a map of the Cotswolds in the corner. They had both been served and would not need attention for a while. In any case, there was a little hand-held bell on the counter for them to call for service.

  Rising wearily, I made my way into the kitchen, hoping that I might be able to scrounge some sandwiches. I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and was instantly enveloped by the wonderful smell of baking—sweet cinnamon and rich chocolate and that delicious fragrance that comes from fresh bread and warm, buttery pastries. Cassie and Fletcher were sitting at the large wooden table in the centre, the former stuffing her face with toasted teacakes and the latter putting the finishing touches to a batch of traditional English shortbread.

  I went over to join them and helped myself to a teacake from Cassie’s plate. I slathered some butter on it before biting into the soft, chewy bun. Like a lot of British desserts, teacakes had a slightly misleading name. They weren’t cakes at all but a type of lightly spiced sweet bun, often filled with juicy raisins, currants, and sultanas. You cut them in half and popped them under a grill (or over an open fire if you were of a romantic bent), so that they became soft and puffy, with crisp golden edges. Topped with oozing melted butter and accompanied by a hot cup of tea, they were one of the ultimate comfort foods. I sat back with a contented sigh as I enjoyed my teacake and sipped the hot mug of tea that Cassie had placed in front of me.

  “Hey… Fletcher, sorry about what happened earlier,” I said.

  He nodded. “I saw Muesli. She’s okay.”

  “Yeah, I just looked in on her again and she’s curled up in her little bed, sleeping. I don’t think that guy actually touched her with his foot when he tried to kick her.”

  “Rotten swine,” Cassie muttered.

  “Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him,” I said with a sigh.

  “Didn’t he say he was coming back tomorrow morning?” Cassie made a face.

  “I’ll serve him,” I promised. “You don’t have to go anywhere near him.”

  ***

  “Whew!” said Cassie, sinking down into one of the chairs at the tables. “I’m knackered.”

  I gave her a grateful look. “Thanks so much for helping out today, Cassie. It’s been really full on, I know.”

  She waved my thanks away. “It’s what you want! And tomorrow should hopefully be even busier because loads of local tourists come to the Cotswolds for the weekend, so we’ll have them on top of the internationals…”

  “As long as there aren’t any more visitors like that American today,” I said with a dark look.

  “Yeah, he was an obnoxious plonker, wasn’t he? Still, he made a good subject.”

  “You sketched him?”

  She shrugged. “You know I like to do quick sketches of interesting faces if I have a moment free. I’ve actually had a couple of customers ask me if they can buy theirs—maybe I should start a sideline business in portraits.” She grinned.

  “I’m surprised you want to remember his face,” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s got an ugly mug, all right, but quite interesting from an artistic point of view. I did one of him from memory this afternoon—look…” She got up and went to the counter, returning in a moment with a piece of paper.

  I took it and looked down at the sketch. Cassie was really talented. She had managed to capture the American’s likeness with a few swift strokes, from his block-like head to his jutting ears and fleshy cheeks. There was something hard and cruel about his eyes.

  I shuddered and pushed the sketch away. “He gives me a bad vibe.”

  “You mean, aside from being a lecherous old git?”

  I nodded. “There was something that just didn’t add up… I mean, he was trying really hard to put on this image of a hale and hearty American tourist but he seemed fake somehow.”

  Cassie laughed. “Fake tourist? Why would anyone want to fake being a tourist?”

  “That’s just it—I don’t know! It seems such a stupid thing to do, doesn’t it? And yet, I’m sure he was lying. For example, he asked me directions to Magdalen College.”

  “So?”

  “Well, he called it ‘Maud-lin’! Not ‘Mag-da-len’, which is how most tourists—especially American tourists—say it. Only locals and students who’ve been to Oxford know that it should be pronounced ‘Maud-lin’. It’s one of the first things that flags you as a foreign tourist—when you can’t say the college names correctly.”

  Cassie shrugged. “Maybe he read about the pronunciation in a guidebook somewhere. It’s hardly a state secret.”

  “I suppose so…” I said. “But it wasn’t just that. When we were talking about directions to Magdalen, he also mentioned Catte Street being opposite the bank.”

  Cassie looked at me blankly.

  “He meant an actual bank,” I explained. “Not the Old Bank Hotel, which is what’s there now. He tried to cover it up but I could tell that that was what he meant.”

  Cassie frowned. “So? Gemma, I really don’t see what you’re getting at…”

  I leaned forwards. “My point is, he wouldn’t have known that the Old Bank Hotel used to be a bank, unless he was actually here in Oxford when it was a bank—before they turned it into a hotel.”

  Cassie shook her head in exasperation. “Well, he could have read about that as well! I mean, there’s a reason it’s called the Old Bank Hotel, isn’t there? It would be logical to assume that there used to be a bank there.”

  “But it’s not the way you’d talk if you were a tourist and read the information on Wikipedia or Trip Advisor,” I said stubbornly. “You would have just said Old Bank Hotel, not ‘the bank’. That suggests someone who used to see it as a bank. It’s that kind of casual assumption you use when you’ve walked past a place loads of times. And we know that the hotel used to be a branch of Barclays. My parents bank with Barclays and my father had his account there before it shut down. I remember going in with him as a little girl to see the tellers in that old Georgian building.”

  “I think you’re splitting hairs,” said Cassie impatiently. “Or letting your imagination run away with you.”

  “Well, I wasn’t imagining his crazy psy
cho behaviour when he jumped on me with that knife!” I said. “That was totally over the top. And he wasn’t just being careful about identity theft, in spite of what he said. I think he got upset because he thought I was looking at his papers.”

  “So? A lot of people would get upset if you looked at their private papers.”

  “Yeah, but they wouldn’t jump on you and threaten you with a knife!”

  “Well, maybe he over-reacted. Or maybe it was a kind of reflex thing. You know, like he just grabbed anything within reach on the table.”

  “It was still an extreme reaction,” I insisted. “And besides, I did get a glimpse of one of the papers in the folder.”

  “And?”

  “And it looked like an official letter from someone at Oxford University.”

  Cassie gave another impatient sigh. “So?”

  “So he said that he had never been to Oxford before, right? He specifically told me that he was a first-time tourist and acted like he knew nothing about the place… so why did he have an official letter from the University?”

  “Are you sure the letter was for him?”

  “No, I’m not,” I admitted. “But if it wasn’t his, why was he so sensitive about it?”

  “I don’t know!” Cassie threw her hands up in exasperation. “Honestly, Gemma, I think you’re letting the whole thing blow up into a huge deal in your head.” She got up and shoved her chair back under the table. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You coming to the pub for a drink?”

  “I don’t know… I’m supposed to have dinner with my parents,” I said

  Cassie threw a glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s only six. You’ve got time for a quick drink before heading back. Besides, after a day like today—you need a drink.”

  She was right. Quickly, I helped to tidy up the room, then switched off all the lights and shut up the tearoom. We left by the back door which led out into the side courtyard. The building in which my tearoom was housed used to be a Tudor inn, with accompanying stabling for the guests’ horses. A long, narrow courtyard ran along the side of the building, paved with cobblestones and bounded by white-washed walls. It was probably where they used to saddle up and mount the horses, but now it made a valuable addition to the tearoom premises. Especially in the warm summer months, I could see lots of customers enjoying the open air and having their tea and food at the tables out here.

  I planned to dress the place up with some big wooden tubs of pansies, hanging flower baskets in the corners, and generally make it look so pretty and inviting that no tourist could resist if they walked past and looked in the courtyard entrance.

  For now, though, with the chilly autumn weather, the courtyard was mostly empty and un-used. I kept the wrought iron gates open, though, so that anyone could use the tables and chairs if they just wanted somewhere to rest their weary feet or a quiet place to eat their packed lunch. I knew that the local dog owners appreciated having somewhere they could sit down together with their hounds, after a walk, and I made sure to always leave a bowl of fresh water by the back door of the tearoom.

  There was a real nip in the air that night—a good reminder that winter was just around the corner—and I pulled the collar of my duffel coat up around my neck as I followed Cassie down the high street to the local village pub. Once the sun set, the Blue Boar was the place to be—it was the heart of the village and the place where all the locals congregated for a pint and a gossip.

  I pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth, looking around me with appreciation. Like my tearoom, the pub was housed in a 15th-century Tudor house, although with lower ceilings, giving the place an almost cellar-like feel. And instead of a large open space, the interior was filled with cosy nooks and crannies—behind the pillars and around the fireplace—and dominated by a hand-carved, dark mahogany bar in the centre.

  The place was heaving. With the typical English habit of heading straight to the pub after work and in the evening on the weekends, this was the busiest time of the evening—and the numbers were swelled by the visiting tourists. Many of them would be staying at the various B&Bs and hotels on the outskirts of the village and probably came here for an authentic English pub experience.

  “Seth said he might meet us here, if he could get away in time…” Cassie scanned the room. “Ah, there he is! And he’s got a couple of seats for us by the window—good on him,” she said with satisfaction.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” I said. “You go and join him first.”

  Cassie nodded and headed across the room. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front of the bar. Brian, the landlord, was busy at the beer tap, his sleeves rolled up to show his beefy arms as he pulled on a lever and filled a glass with foaming amber liquid.

  He glanced up and gave me a smile. “Gemma! What can I get ya?”

  “Half a cider for Cassie, please, and a shandy for me.”

  “Still a lightweight, eh? I would have thought that living in Australia would’ve cured you of that. On the other hand, Aussie beer…” He made a face. “Maybe I’m not surprised that you’re opting for soft drinks.”

  I laughed. “Hey, the Aussies are pretty proud of their beers.”

  “I stand by my opinion. A beer’s not a beer unless it’s a proper pint of English ale.”

  I smiled, refusing to be drawn into that age-old debate. “Busy here tonight,” I commented, looking around the place.

  He nodded, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. “Aye, a good bunch. A lot of tourists, but.”

  I noticed his eyes were fixed on a particular figure on the other side of the bar and as I followed his gaze, my heart sank as I realised suddenly who it was: the American from that morning. He was standing at the bar with a pint of ale in his hand, arguing with another man. From the expression on their faces, it wasn’t a friendly debate. I could see the look of concern in Brian’s eyes. He had been a publican for thirty years and he could recognise trouble brewing.

  “Some of these tourists ought to know when to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered as he pulled the lever and filled Cassie’s half pint, tilting the glass with expert skill so that the foam stopped just short of spilling over the edge. “And some of the locals should learn not to let others wind them up so easily.”

  I looked over at the arguing men again and belatedly recognised the other punter. It was Mike Bailey, one of the local “troublemakers”. He was a belligerent young man in his early twenties, with a tendency to get violent when drunk—which was often. Long acquaintance and respect for his family, who had lived in the area for centuries, had led most of the villagers to ignore Mike’s sullen outbursts and put up with his behaviour. But when his surliness took a physical turn, Brian was quick to kick him off the premises. Cassie had told me that there had been a couple of incidents which had ended in assault charges, but so far, Mike Bailey had managed to stay out of Oxford Prison.

  As I watched, he squared up to the American, jutting his chin out and jabbing a finger in the other man’s chest. A third man was standing between them, smiling weakly and attempting to calm the situation.

  “I’m not sure you can blame Mike this time,” I said to Brian. “I had a run-in with that chap myself earlier today and I have to say, he’s pretty obnoxious.”

  Brian grunted. “Obnoxious or not, he’s a customer. Mike had better watch himself. If they’ve got a problem, they can take it outside. I’m not having a fight in my pub.”

  As we watched, the third man tried again, this time inserting himself bodily between the two arguing men. They seemed to calm down slightly and both stopped to take a drink from their glasses. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I didn’t think I could handle any more drama today.

  Brian set my drinks in front of me, took the money I offered, and handed me a packet of pork scratchings. He gave me a wink. “On the house.”

  I smiled my thanks, then tucked the packet under my arm, picked up the drinks, and, balancing them carefully, made my way over to join Cas
sie and Seth.

  “I’ve just been telling Seth all about our day and our American Psycho,” said Cassie as I sat down. Her eyes flicked across the room. “And then I look up and he’s there! And as charming as ever, I see.”

  I groaned. “I know; it’s like some kind of curse—I can’t get away from the man! When he said he was going into Oxford earlier, I was hoping that he wouldn’t be coming back any time soon.”

  “Well, the coach probably brought the whole tour group back to the hotel this afternoon,” said Cassie. “Anyway, forget him.” She turned to Seth, sitting next to her. “So how’s life in the ‘dreaming spires’ these days?”

  Seth cleared his throat and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. It was a gesture I could remember from the day I met him when I first arrived as a Fresher in college. He had come up to read Chemistry, whilst I’d opted for the more genteel degree of English Literature. He had a room on my staircase in college and he had found me on that first day in Noughth Week, struggling with my suitcase at the bottom of the four-flight staircase. He had gallantly insisted on carrying my case up for me, in spite of nearly keeling over under the weight of it, and we had been firm friends ever since.

  Seth was sweet and shy, although his earnest sharing of information could occasionally make him come across as pompous. Maybe because of this, he had opted to remain in the insular safety of academia and had gone straight from his undergraduate degree to a DPhil (PhD to the rest of the world), then a Junior Research Fellowship, and finally a Senior Research Fellow. I didn’t think it would be long before he was made Professor. I suspected that Seth harboured a secret crush on Cassie all these years, but was simply too shy to tell her.

  He was blushing slightly now as he recounted a story about his adventures at High Table. All the Oxford colleges had stately halls where a communal dinner was served and the dons and “fellows”—the academic staff—normally sat at High Table, usually at the very top of the room. Politics at High Table could be treacherous, especially for a younger member of the Senior Common Room—as Seth was finding out. With his naturally diffident manner, he was an easy target for the more domineering members of the SCR.