by H. Y. Hanna
“Move over!”
“I can’t! You move over!”
“There’s no room!”
“It’s your stupid handbag, Glenda! I told you not to buy that style.”
“It’s not my handbag, it’s your bottom! You need to lose some weight, Florence.”
“Rubbish!”
“Shh—they’ll hear us!”
Devlin muttered under his breath, then stepped over and pulled the cupboard door open. It revealed four little old ladies clutching each other.
“Eeek!”
“Inspector O’Connor! What a surprise!” Mabel let go of the others and stepped out, recovering spectacularly.
Devlin gave a deep sigh. “Yes, another one. I don’t think I can cope with any more surprises tonight. I suppose you were searching for Gemma’s pashmina in the broom cupboard?”
Mabel darted a look at me. “Why, yes… of course! How clever of you to guess that! But of course, that’s why you’re such a brilliant detective… ha ha...”
They filed out, brushing themselves off and patting their helmet hair.
“Mrs Cooke…” Devlin sounded like he was making a huge effort to stay calm. “I appreciate your attempts to help the police but, as I have said before, I must ask you to leave the investigation to the professionals. You don’t know what you are doing and you may get yourself—” he glanced at the others, “—and your friends hurt.”
Maybe it was his tone or the hard look in his blue eyes, but for once, Mabel seemed to decide that it was better to hold her tongue and they shuffled, looking suitably chastened, back down the stairs. Devlin escorted us all back to the gate, and stood with his arms folded, watching as the Old Biddies trundled off together down the cobbled lane. I turned away to get my bicycle from the bike shed beside the Porters Lodge, but as I began to wheel it out of the college gates, Devlin came up to me and put a hand on my arm.
“Gemma, before you run off… fancy a drink?”
I looked at him in surprise. What was this? A social invitation? Or an excuse for further police interrogation? I hesitated, then gave a nod. “Okay.”
He walked with me out of the college and down the lane. As we approached the corner of Broad Street, he jerked his head towards the King’s Arms. “How about the K.A.?”
I hesitated again, then straightened my shoulders. If Devlin could go back to an old haunt without a flicker of feeling, then I could match his cool detachment. “Yes, fine.”
I chained my bicycle to a post outside the building that housed the oldest pub in Oxford, then we went in. I caught my breath as I stepped over the threshold. It was as if I had stepped back in time. The long, wood-panelled bar was still there, with the lettered signs along the top casing advertising “Young’s Stout” and “Addlestones Premium Cloudy Cider”; the dark, cosy rooms were filled with what looked like the same vintage leather sofas and sturdy wood chairs that I had once lounged on as a student; the familiar black-and-white photos, and old prints of Oxford hung on the walls. How many times had I stepped in here, just like this, with Devlin at my side, his hand on my elbow?
I shook off the memories and walked into the pub, deliberately taking a seat in the middle of the room, away from the cosy, intimate corners.
“What shall I get you—a shandy?”
I felt a silly rush of pleasure at him remembering my usual drink. “Yes, thanks.”
He went off to the bar and I had ample time to compose myself by the time he came back with two glasses. I was also ready with some questions about the case, to save myself having to make awkward small talk.
“So… does Professor Hughes have an alibi for Saturday morning?”
Devlin took a swallow of his pint and regarded me sardonically. “Has Mabel Cooke assigned you the task of pumping me for information?”
I grinned, relaxing slightly. “No, this is just my own nosiness.”
He matched my grin with a boyish one of his own, looking suddenly a lot younger and making my heart give an unsteady flop.
“Yes, I had my sergeant check Hughes’s alibi this morning—before I questioned him. The prof says he was in college, marking some essays in his room, and that seems to bear out. My sergeant spoke to a student, Tom Rawlings, who heard Hughes in his room, arguing with someone on the phone, at the time when Washington would have been murdered.”
“So he’s in the clear?” I said in disappointment.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Hughes is definitely hiding something. But as far as his alibi goes, it certainly seems to check out.” Devlin motioned to his phone. “I rang my sergeant before I left Hughes’s room and asked him to check the story about the pet allergy and the anti-histamines.”
“For what it’s worth, Hughes’s face did look slightly swollen when I saw him at dinner at High Table on Saturday night,” I offered.
Devlin nodded. “I didn’t think it looked like the kind of swelling you get from a fight injury—but of course, it never hurts to check. I’m not really expecting anything, though. If it had been Mike Bailey with a swollen face, that would have been a different story.”
“Is he still your strongest suspect?”
“Yes.”
“And…” I hesitated. “What about Justine?”
“What about her?” Devlin said, taking another mouthful of his ale.
“Did you check what Mabel said—about her meeting Washington on Friday night in Oxford?”
“Yes.” Devlin paused as if debating what to tell me, then he said, “Justine confessed that she did meet Washington. She hadn’t wanted to mention it before because she knew that spouses were always one of the key suspects in a murder case, particularly when a spouse stands to gain by the victim’s death.”
I raised my eyebrows enquiringly.
“As his wife and without a will stating otherwise, Justine is the beneficiary of Washington’s entire estate.”
“Wow.” I sat back in my chair. “That’s enough motive for most people.”
Devlin said nothing. I looked at him sharply.
“There’s something else, isn’t there? Another good reason for Justine to want Washington dead?”
Devlin inclined his head reluctantly. “She said that the reason she saw Washington on Friday night was because he requested a meeting. He wanted a divorce. They were separated, but Justine had always balked at an actual divorce and Washington didn’t seem to mind before. They’ve been living apart for the last couple of years, although he still supported her with a regular allowance.”
A very generous allowance, I thought to myself, remembering Justine’s designer clothes and expensive hair and make-up. I’ll bet she wasn’t happy to hear that Washington wanted a divorce.
“I suppose those payments would have stopped once they were divorced?” I said.
“Yes. They had some kind of pre-nup agreement which stated that Justine wouldn’t get any alimony payments unless they had children. They didn’t. But it seemed that Washington was quite happy to keep the status quo until recently. We got some information back from Interpol,” said Devlin. “It seems that Washington had a new girlfriend back in the States and she was putting pressure on him to get a divorce. Sounds like she was angling for his ring on her own finger.”
“So Justine would have been left high and dry,” I said. “Whereas now, instead, with Washington dead, she’s a very rich widow.”
Devlin drained his pint and sat back. “Yes. But at the end of the day, she has an alibi for Saturday morning. However much she might have wanted to kill Washington, the fact is, she couldn’t have done it because she was somewhere else when the murder was committed.” He shook his head. “In any case, I don’t think it’s her.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “Instinct. A hunch. Whatever you want to call it.”
Lust, I thought sourly. I wondered if Devlin would have been so quick to insist that Justine was innocent if she didn’t look like Jessica Rabbit come to life.
“Speaking of alibis�
��” Devlin said. “I thought you’d like to know that my sergeant managed to get hold of Ethel Webb at last and she confirms that she saw Fletcher leaving his house at 8:45 a.m.—which was after the murder was committed. So he’s in the clear.”
“Ohhh… he’ll be so pleased to hear that,” I said, smiling. “I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow morning. It’s been weighing on him, you know, especially with his cat going missing too.”
“His cat?” Devlin raised an eyebrow
“Don’t sneer,” I said quickly. “His cat means a lot to him. Fletcher’s very shy and he… he doesn’t relate to people very well.”
“I’m not sneering,” said Devlin. “In fact, I’ve seen first-hand some cases where people are more upset to lose their pet than their spouse. And I’ve met many people who prefer the company of animals to humans. I have to say, though, I’ve always been more of a dog person, myself.”
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed. “In fact, until I met Muesli, I wouldn’t have ever said I like cats… but… well, she sort of worms her way into your heart,” I said with a laugh. “She’s naughty and infuriating and mouthy and contrary… and generally drives me mad… but I can’t help but like her.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
I looked at him quickly but he had glanced away and was scanning the room, observing the other punters.
“So… you’re still pegging Mike Bailey for the murder?” I said after an awkward pause. “It just seems so crude and simple—that Washington was killed as the result of some drunken brawl. It feels like it ought to be more complicated than that!”
“Real life often is crude and simple,” said Devlin. “It’s only in books and movies that they make it so romantic and complicated.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I got to the tearoom early the next morning. Fletcher was already there, making Chelsea buns (the fancy equivalent of cinnamon rolls, if you’re not British). I joined him and we worked together in a companionable silence. Baking was definitely not a natural talent for me but Fletcher was a great teacher—patient, repetitive, his explanations simple—and since I’d started working with him, I found myself growing in confidence (and actually producing something edible) under his guidance.
Now as I kneaded the sticky dough and then spread it out and sprinkled the cinnamon, raisins, currants, and rich muscovado sugar across the surface before rolling it into a tight coil, I mulled over the mystery. It was partly to occupy my thoughts, otherwise I found them straying constantly to last night and the drink I had had with Devlin in the King’s Arms—recalling each expression on his face, each gesture that he made, each nuance in his voice…
I pushed the memory away and dragged my mind back to the case. Mike Bailey. Justine Washington. Geoffrey Hughes. Each with a motive or an opportunity to kill Washington.
Mike Bailey was the obvious suspect, with his history of violent behaviour and his actual assault on the victim the night before. And he had no alibi for the morning of the murder. And yet, to me, he seemed the least likely candidate for the killer. It seemed too simplistic, too obvious—and it ignored all the other questions, such as Washington’s enigmatic connection to Oxford University. But what if the answer really was that simple? I remembered Devlin’s comment about how most crimes are just simple and crude—not the convoluted mysteries featured in books and movies. People killed each other all the time for the most mundane of reasons. Maybe I didn’t want to accept it simply because I preferred the romantic idea of a complex murder mystery full of hidden secrets from the past.
What about Justine Washington? She had an alibi—but she also had a very good reason for wanting Washington dead. His demand for a divorce would have killed off the regular support payments and destroyed the cushy lifestyle she had become used to. Instead, she was now a very rich woman, the sole beneficiary of his entire estate. Yes, Washington’s murder had worked out very well in Justine’s favour. Devlin was vehement in his belief that the beautiful American wasn’t guilty, but could his instincts be trusted where Justine was concerned?
And what about Professor Geoffrey Hughes? I had to admit that my personal impression of the man hadn’t been a good one. That tight pursed mouth, those small, cold eyes behind the wire-rimmed spectacles… yes, I could imagine Hughes committing murder. And his connection to the victim’s old college fit the mystery much better. On the face of it, he didn’t seem to have a strong motive for wanting Washington dead, but who knew what the man was still hiding? I was certain that Hughes hadn’t told Devlin everything about that “new venture” which Washington had been trying to get him to invest in. The murder must have been somehow connected with that—and with the University. It was just too much of a coincidence that Washington should come—furtively—to Oxford to speak to Hughes and then be killed by some random drunk he met in a pub…
But Hughes had an alibi, I reminded myself. Devlin said his sergeant had checked it earlier yesterday and a student—what was his name? Oh yes, Tom Rawlings—had confirmed that Hughes was in his college room during the time of the murder. The sergeant had also rung Devlin as we were leaving the King’s Arms last night, confirming that he had verified Hughes’s pet allergy story: the neighbours did indeed take their new Labrador puppy over to show Hughes on Saturday and the pharmacy confirmed that the Pharmacology professor had a standing prescription for a strong anti-histamine. So it looked like, so far, everything Hughes had told the police was the truth.
But still, I just couldn’t trust him. He was hiding something—or lying about something… I paused suddenly in what I was doing. What if his alibi was somehow faked? After all, he had lied about meeting Washington on Friday—who was to say he hadn’t lied about his alibi as well? If we removed the assumption that he had a solid alibi for the murder, then all the other facts began to form a suggestive pattern…
I was still pondering this when Cassie arrived a few minutes later and we began preparing to open the tearoom for business. I’d been happily expecting a repeat of yesterday’s flood of customers and was slightly taken aback when ten o’clock crept around and we still had only had two people come in—one just for a cup of takeaway coffee at that.
“Bit slow today, isn’t it?” commented Cassie from where she was perched on a stool behind the counter, drawing something on her sketchpad. I looked at the pile of completed sketches next to her, an indication of how quiet things were.
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I said with a sigh. I frowned and looked out of the tearoom windows. “I don’t understand it. Yesterday we were mobbed, and I would have thought that all that vulgar curiosity would have taken another few days to die down, at least…”
By lunchtime, I was becoming really concerned. I glanced at the clock: 1:15 p.m., usually the peak lunch hour. I looked around the room. Only one table was occupied. We had had our quiet days, of course, since we opened, and I had learned to cope with the ups and downs of a food business. But it had never been this bad. Today, the tearoom was dead.
As I was standing at the counter, staring at the empty room in front of me and trying not to worry, Cassie stormed in the front door, her face flushed and angry. She had popped down to the post office to pick up some stamps and I saw now that she was brandishing a tabloid newspaper in her fist.
“Absolute bloody tossers!” she snarled. “I’m going to kill whoever wrote this!”
“What, Cassie? What is it?” I cried, springing up in alarm.
She slammed the newspaper down on the counter in front of me. “Here! This is why we don’t have any customers today!”
I looked down and recoiled in horror. On the front page of the newspaper was a picture of my tearoom accompanied by the lurid headline:
KILLER SCONES AT COTSWOLDS TEAROOM!
My eyes continued down the page, not wanting to read the words but unable to stop myself.
Death struck a quaint Cotswolds village last weekend when an American tourist was found murdered at the Little Stables Tearoom. But ev
en more shocking was the discovery that the victim had choked on the very scones offered on the tearoom menu.
“I’ve eaten there several times—I had no idea that their scones were so dangerous,” says one patron.
“The owner is new to the village and I heard that she’s come back from overseas. Full of fancy foreign ideas and such. One wonders what she’s putting into the food,” says another village resident, who claims to have had a “dodgy tummy” after eating at the tearoom.
Other sources reported witnessing an altercation between the victim and one of the waitresses.
“I heard her threaten him,” says a customer. “She was really angry and said she would choke him, in front of the whole tearoom!”
There is an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty in Meadowford-on-Smythe today and many are afraid to return to the tearoom.
“I don’t want to be the next victim,” declares a local resident. “That place is too dangerous! Why, they could add poison to your food if they decide that they don’t like the look of you!”
Police are continuing with the investigation and appealing to anyone who might have information about the victim, an American tourist named Brad Washington (photo inset).
“They’ve just made up a load of rubbish!” Cassie fumed. “What are they going on about? I never threatened to choke anybody!”
I remembered something and looked at her with dismay. “Cass… I think it was when you said you hoped he’d choke on his scones. The whole tearoom heard you—remember?”
“Huh?” Cassie looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. “But they took my words totally out of context! I mean, it’s just something you say when you’re frustrated—and I had a good reason for feeling that way, after that creep copped a feel of my arse!”
“I know, I know…” I said. “But these papers specialise in taking things out of context. Otherwise, they’d have nothing to publish.” I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I saw a bunch of people being interviewed outside the front yesterday and I did wonder what they were saying…”
