by H. Y. Hanna
“But I don’t think Mike Bailey did it,” I said when I had repeated the story. “I think this is something to do with the University. I think you need to check the American’s—”
“Thank you, Miss Rose, I know how to do my job. I don’t need you to think about what I need to do—I just need you to answer my questions.”
Devlin O’Connor had never spoken to me in that tone of voice before. I stopped and stared at him. For the first time, I realised that this was not the boy I used to know—this was a cold, hard man who was a stranger to me. I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell him about the American’s unusual knowledge of Oxford or his abnormally aggressive reaction yesterday, but now faced with Devlin’s curt attitude, I decided that I wouldn’t bother. If Devlin wanted any more information from me, he could bloody well ask for it! I wasn’t going to volunteer anything else!
“Can I go now?”
He nodded. “I may have some other questions, but for now… yes.”
I stood up stiffly and went into the kitchen, where I could hear raised voices. I opened the door to see the young sergeant sitting on the wooden table, leaning menacingly over Fletcher, in his best imitation of a hard-boiled detective from one of the American TV crime dramas. My poor chef looked like a nervous wreck as he stammered to answer the questions being fired at him. Cassie was sitting on the other side of the table, flushed and angry as she watched helplessly.
“You say you normally arrive at the tearoom a couple of hours before it opens—so why were you so late this morning?” The sergeant’s voice was harsh and accusatory.
Fletcher seemed to shrink into himself. “B-b-because I was sleeping. The alarm w-went off but I didn’t hear it.”
“And why were you so flustered? I see that you’re sweating—you look like you’ve been running. Care to explain why?”
Fletcher looked at him in bewilderment. “B-b-because I was late! I’m supposed to start making the scones really early, otherwise they won’t be ready.”
The sergeant leaned into his face. “So where were you running from?”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Cassie burst out. “Are you stupid? He overslept and was late, so he was running from his house, which is on the other side of the village!”
Fletcher looked at Cassie in distress. “Don’t say ‘stupid’. It’s not nice to call someone that,” he said, wringing his hands.
The sergeant gave Cassie a cold stare. “I’d thank you to let me question the suspect in peace, or I may have you for police obstruction, miss.”
Cassie sprang to her feet, her face red. “You—!”
“Whoa!” I said quickly, stepping into the kitchen.
Fletcher looked up gratefully. “You tell him, Gemma! You saw me come! I was late because I didn’t hear my alarm!”
I glared at the sergeant, feeling a wave of dislike for him. I knew that he was probably just doing his job but he was a bit too cocky for his own good.
I raised my chin and said levelly, “Fletcher’s right—I met him as he came in, just before 9 a.m. He lives on the other side of the village, about a fifteen-minute walk from here… or ten, I suppose, if you are running.”
“Any neighbours who can verify his whereabouts?”
“His house backs onto the woods on one side and Miss Ethel Webb lives on the other. She used to be the village librarian before she retired.”
“We’ll need to speak to her and check his alibi,” the sergeant said importantly. Then he turned back to Fletcher, who flinched under his gaze. “Now, about yesterday, I want to know—”
“I don’t think Fletcher can help you,” Cassie cut him off. “He was in the kitchen most of yesterday.”
“Yes,” I agreed. Then I added, glancing sideways at Fletcher and lowering my voice, “And he’s not really the type to talk much to people. It’s a waste of time asking—”
“Gemma.”
I whirled around. Devlin was standing in the kitchen doorway. I wondered if he realised that he had called me by my first name.
He said in an impatient tone, like someone speaking to an annoying child, “We have to question everyone. We can’t make exceptions. It will all be over quicker if you let us do our job.”
“Yes, but you don’t understand.” I hurried across to him and said in an undertone, “Fletcher is… different. He… he doesn’t interact with others like most—”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Devlin said, his voice making it clear that this was the end of the discussion. “I’d like to speak to Mr Wilson myself now. If you and Miss Jenkins could wait outside please?”
There was a pause, then Cassie got up and stalked out. I hesitated, then gave Fletcher an encouraging smile and walked to the kitchen door. As I got there, however, I looked back. Devlin was standing with his head bent, reading the notes the sergeant had scribbled on a pad. The light from the kitchen windows caught the glint of his dark hair and highlighted his aquiline profile. It brought to mind those paintings of Celtic warriors… I shook my head sharply. I had to stop thinking of Devlin O’Connor like that. He was no longer the romantic hero of my youthful dreams—he was now the detective in a murder investigation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As it was, Devlin didn’t keep either Cassie or Fletcher long; their interviews were even shorter than mine and they were soon released. I was glad to see that Fletcher looked slightly less distressed as he came out of the kitchen and felt grateful that Devlin had obviously acted with sensitivity. However, my goodwill towards him vanished when he came back in, after a hasty conference with the pathologist, and told me that I would have to shut the tearoom for the rest of the weekend.
“What? You can’t be serious!”
There was no sign of humour on his face. “I’m perfectly serious. This is now a crime scene and until the SOCO unit can go over the place, we can’t have a dozen tourists trampling around destroying evidence.”
“But… he was found outside in the courtyard! Can’t you just fence off that area and leave the rest of the tearoom as normal?”
He shook his head.
“But… but weekends are our busiest times! I can’t shut the tearoom!” I glanced out the windows. Already, I could see a crowd of curious bystanders forming outside. If anything, it looked like I would have even more business than usual.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have no choice.”
I opened my mouth to argue, caught the look in his steely blue eyes, and thought better of it. Instead, I asked: “So you’re sure that this is murder?”
“We think there’s been foul play, yes. The pathologist is certain that it was not death by natural causes. He’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
“Did… did someone force a scone down his throat and choke him to death?”
Devlin’s expression was guarded. “That’s one theory. It’s certainly what it looks like.”
To my frustration, he refused to divulge anything further, and five minutes later I found myself being hustled out into the street by the cocky young sergeant. Devlin followed us out and was immediately accosted by Mabel Cooke, with Florence Doyle and Glenda Bailey right behind her. I noticed that Ethel was missing.
“Now, young man, what’s going on here?” demanded Mabel, arms akimbo as she stared up at him.
To his credit, Devlin didn’t flinch under that ferocious gaze. Perhaps it was easier to face bossy little old ladies when you were six foot one and all lean muscle. I expected him to deliver more of that curt detective attitude but, to my surprise, he put on a pleasant expression and addressed the crowd. He gave them a brief account of the situation—simply saying that an American tourist had been found dead—and appealed to anyone who might have information. He was as smooth and charming as a politician working the polls and I could see the crowd instantly responding to him.
This was a side of him I had never seen before—the Devlin I’d known would have barged into the crowd with hot-tempered impatience, but this Devlin was cool and quietly authoritative. He was
also incredibly good-looking, I thought sourly. I could see several of the women in the crowd eyeing him with open appreciation. Glenda Bailey actually fluttered her eyelashes at him and giggled when he asked her to answer some questions. To my disgust, in less time than it takes to describe it, Devlin had a line of people eagerly queuing up to be questioned by him and his sergeant.
I turned to go. There was no point in me hanging around. As I made my way to the back of the crowd, I bumped into Nicky Wilcox, a pretty young mother who was one of the locals and a new regular at my tearoom. She had her baby with her in a stroller and she gave me a sympathetic smile.
“My goodness, Gemma… what a nightmare for you.” She gave a little shiver. “Is it the American who was in the tearoom yesterday?”
I nodded.
Nicky lowered her voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t really say this—not speaking ill of the dead and all that—but I have to say, I’m not really surprised. He was so… well… he seemed like the type who would provoke people…”
“And how!” I agreed fervently. “I kept telling myself yesterday that all sorts of tourists pass through the Cotswolds every day and I just had to grit my teeth until he moved on to the next place in his itinerary.”
“Well, I hope things get back to normal for you by Monday. I’m dying to bring my sister in to show her the tearoom. I’m sure she’d love it—and she loves scones.”
“Does she live locally too?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t go out much. She suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome,” Nicky said with a sad smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Her doctor’s just started her on a different medication and we’re hoping that she responds well.”
“Well, tell her there’s a plate of scones waiting in the tearoom with her name on it,” I said with a smile.
“I will,” Nicky promised, returning the smile.
I left her and hurried across the street. Cassie and Fletcher had both already left. I had no plans of my own and had nothing more exciting to look forward to than recounting the morning’s events to my mother. The bus for Oxford was pulling up outside the school and I made a run for it. I managed to get in just before the doors shut and collapsed onto the first seat.
“What’s going on at the tearoom?” asked the bus driver, turning around to peer out of his window.
I followed his gaze, seeing the police cars parked haphazardly outside the tearoom and the crowd of people milling in the street. There were constables circling the building, putting up crime scene tape, and already I could see what looked like a reporter with a cameraman arriving on the scene. It looked like something out of a TV show, not a corner of a quiet Cotswolds village. The news would probably be all over Oxfordshire by evening so I doubted I’d be giving anything away. Quickly, I told the driver what had happened.
“Blimey!” he said as he eased the bus away from the curb and started on the road to Oxford. “I can’t believe it—he was only on my bus yesterday!”
“Really? Did you take him into the city?”
The driver nodded. “Aye, just after lunch, it were. He asked me to drop him somewhere near the K.A.”
My ears perked up. “The K.A.? Did he ask specifically for the K.A.? He didn’t say the King’s Arms?”
The driver shook his head. “No, he asked for the K.A. Got out at the bottom of Broad Street. That was as close as I could get him.”
I was silent, thinking hard. The King’s Arms was one of the most popular pubs in Oxford, but its nickname—the K.A.—was used mainly by students. The fact that the American had referred to it as such confirmed my suspicions that he had once been at Oxford as a student himself.
As the Victorian townhouses of North Oxford came into view, I made a sudden decision. Leaning forwards, I said to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll pop down into the city—get some shopping done.”
He nodded and bypassed the stop near my parents’ house, continuing down the road to the heart of the city.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I alighted at the same place on Broad Street that the American had and wandered around aimlessly for a bit. This was the heart of the University—as close to a “campus” as most foreign tourists could hope for—and where most of the famous landmarks of Oxford were collected. There was Hertford College with its distinctive bridge—often called the Bridge of Sighs, after the bridge in Venice, which it was supposed to resemble; the Radcliffe Camera (known affectionately as the “Rad Cam”)—the Bodleian Library’s iconic reading room and perhaps the most photographed building in Oxford; the fantastic Gothic towers of All Souls College, which made up much of the “dreaming spires”; and the 17th-century Roman-inspired Sheldonian Theatre, with its thirteen busts of emperors’ heads standing vigil on posts around its boundary.
I stopped outside the theatre and looked up at its circular façade, with the distinctive green-roofed cupola at the top. I thought of the many times I had been in that building—for matriculation and graduation ceremonies and numerous classical concerts in between. It was strange to be back in Oxford again, to see how the buildings, which had once been so much a part of my daily life, now seemed so alien to me. It was a bittersweet experience.
Finally I drifted down to the Kings Arm’s, on the corner of Holywell Street and Parks Road, and stood looking at the pub thoughtfully. Although the King’s Arms was used by all students of the University, it was probably most frequented by those at the colleges nearby, such as Hertford, Wadham, Gloucester, Trinity, and New College. What were the chances that the American had been at one of those colleges? It was a long shot, but it was a place to start.
I didn’t stop to ask myself why I was even doing this. Why was it so important to find out if my suspicions about the American had been right? Was it Cassie’s sceptical attitude? Or Devlin’s offhand manner with me that morning? Maybe it was just my own nosiness, I thought with a wry smile. My curiosity had been piqued ever since I’d realised that the American was lying yesterday. I don’t know what I wanted to prove or who I wanted to prove it to but… well, the tearoom was closed for the rest of the day, I had no wish to return to my parents, and I might as well do something with my time.
I headed towards Gloucester College. There was no particular reason for my choice, other than the fact that it was the closest and one I was particularly familiar with—it was where Seth had transferred to. I glanced at my watch. He was probably giving tutorials now. Perhaps I might bump into him in one of the college quads.
As I approached the huge iron-studded doors that guarded the college gate, I was glad that some perverse impulse had caused me to take out my old University card and slip it into my wallet when I first arrived back in England. Aside from some of the bigger colleges such as Christ Church, most Oxford colleges didn’t allow tourists and the general public to enter. As a member of the alumni, however, I could get in—just as I had as a student—by flashing my old University card. I showed this now to the porter at the gate. He gave it a cursory glance, then nodded and waved me past.
I paused inside the main quad and considered my next move. To be honest, I had no idea how I was going to find out if the American had been a student here. Then my eyes alighted on a couple of students in a corner of the quad taking a selfie with their phone. That gave me an idea.
Matriculation photos.
One of the things that set Oxford apart from many other universities was the Matriculation ceremony when you arrived as a new student. It was your first chance to parade around in the formal academic dress of sub fusc (and do your part for the Oxford tourist trade) as you walked with your fellow Freshers to the Sheldonian Theatre to be given official membership of the University.
It was custom that after your Matriculation ceremony, you’d return to your college for the official photo: the entire year of new Freshers lined up on a multi-tiered stage—what the Americans called “bleachers”—solemn and proud in their black gowns and mortarboards, all captured by Gillman & S
oame, who had been the University’s official photographers for over 150 years. Actually, I had looked at my own Matriculation photo recently, when I first got back home and was sorting through the things left in my old bedroom: my eighteen-year-old face had looked ingenuously at the camera from the top row, where the shortest people were placed. Poring over Matriculation photos and giggling over the way you once looked was a time-honoured tradition for Oxford grads.
Perhaps if I could look through Gloucester College’s old Matriculation photos, I might be able to find our friend, the American. Again, it was a long shot. I didn’t even know if I would be able to recognise him—judging by his age, he could have matriculated over twenty years ago, and people changed a lot in that time. But I thought it was worth a try. After all, what did I have to lose—an hour of my time?
On an impulse, I texted Cassie and asked her to send me a picture of her sketch of the American. My phone beeped a minute later and I opened the photo, zooming in and looking at it with satisfaction. The sketch was spare and highlighted his main features, including the sticking-out ears, squarish head, and fleshy cheeks. Even if he had changed a lot since youth, those dominant features were likely to remain the same.
I walked to the college library and made my way up to the upper gallery. I remembered Seth telling me that this was where the college archives were kept. A middle-aged lady sat at a desk near the front of the room. She looked up expectantly as I came in.
“Can I help you, dear?”
“Um…” I hadn’t prepared a story and was caught off guard. “I was hoping to take a look at the college Matriculation photos.”
“The archive is not usually open to the public, although access is possible for research or private reasons, if you are a member of the college.”
“I am a member of the University,” I said, flashing my old University card again. “But… uh… not of this college. It was… er… my uncle who was a member here. He… um… he passed away recently—”
