A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)

by H. Y. Hanna

  There were still several unanswered questions but everything else fit. And besides, I knew. In the pit of my stomach, I knew. I understood now what Devlin had meant about having an instinct for something.

  I felt nauseous.

  What was Fletcher doing now? Did he suspect that I knew? I strained my ears for sounds from the rest of the house. There was the faint creak of floorboards, then the muffled sounds of banging—it sounded like it was coming from the living room. What was he doing?

  I looked desperately around the tiny toilet. I couldn’t stay here forever. Even if I wanted to, the toilet door didn’t have a lock and there was nothing in here that I could wedge against the door to prevent it opening.

  I would have to take my chances outside. If I could just act calm and natural, and casually tell Fletcher that I’d changed my mind—that I didn’t need him to accompany me after all—then I could simply say goodbye, open his front door, and walk sedately away from his house…

  Taking another deep breath, I turned the doorknob and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. Slowly, I walked back to the living room. Fletcher looked up as I came in. He was standing by the living room windows, which had the drapes drawn back, showing the black darkness of the garden and surrounding woods outside.

  I froze, staring at the hammer he held in his hands.

  “Uh… um, Fletcher…” I licked dry lips. “I’ve changed my mind, actually. I don’t think I need you to come with me after all.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, coming towards me. “I will come with you.”

  “Uh… well, there’s really no need,” I stammered, edging away from him. “And… um… it’s such a horrible, cold night… Wouldn’t you rather stay here in the warm, enjoying your nice cup of tea?”

  “No, I can have tea afterwards, like you said.” He raised the hammer and I flinched.

  “Why… why do you have a hammer, Fletcher?”

  He looked at his hand in surprise, as if he had forgotten that he was holding it. “Oh, to fix the window.” He gestured to the living room windows, which were slightly open. One of the handles was hanging loose. A cold draught wafted in, bringing in the chill of the night air outside. I shivered.

  “Ah… right…” I said, trying to calm my racing heart.

  I stole a glance around the room. Fletcher was standing between me and the doorway to the front hall. I could try to make a run for it but I didn’t think I’d get to the front door before he caught me. My eyes slid past the doorway and continued around the room. Then I spotted it, on the side table just a few feet away from me. An old-fashioned, landline telephone.

  If I couldn’t get out, maybe I could call for help. All I had to do was find a way to creep over and dial 999 before Fletcher realised what I was doing. I had to find a way to distract him—send him out of the room somehow…

  I looked down at his feet. “Fletcher—why don’t you change your shoes? I think where we’re going might be muddy. Do you have a pair of wellies?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Okay, I will change into them.”

  He turned around and went through the doorway on the other side of the room, disappearing into the front hall. I heard him fumbling by the front door. I knew I wouldn’t have much time.

  I flew across the room to the telephone and dialled rapidly.

  “Emergency—which service do you require? Fire, Police, or Ambulance?”

  “Police!” I hissed in a whisper. I gave Fletcher’s address and continued breathlessly, “I’m in danger. I’m with Fletcher Wilson. He’s the killer in the recent murders of—”

  “Gemma?”

  I whirled around, dropping the handset. Fletcher was standing behind me, the hammer still held in his hand, his feet now encased in wellington boots. But it was his face I focused on. His brows were lowered in a frown.

  “Why are you calling me a killer?”

  I shifted my weight. “Because… because you are, Fletcher. You murdered Brad Washington—”

  “NO!” he yelled, his face puckering. “I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! He was saying nasty things, horrible things—I wanted him to stop! He was calling me names! Saying I was STUPID! Laughing at me! He said I deserved to be kicked out of Oxford even though I didn’t cheat in my exams, because I was STUPID!”

  He waved the hammer as he spoke, his face red, his eyes wild. I stared at him in horror. I had never seen him like this before. He came towards me, speaking earnestly:

  “I went to the tearoom early. It was nice and quiet. Then I saw Brad. He was loud and rude. He said nasty things. He sat outside and laughed at me. He told me that he was the one who had cheated many years ago—but he made the college think that it was me! He made them kick me out!” Fletcher’s face flushed even redder. “It wasn’t fair! He was the one who was wicked, not me! And then… and then he took out a scone from his paper bag and laughed at me. He said I was too stupid for Oxford anyway—that I was only good enough to make scones in a tearoom…”

  Fletcher’s face twitched spasmodically. “I wanted him to stop—to stop talking! I told him to stop! I begged him to stop! And when he wouldn’t, I pushed the scone into his mouth, to… to shut him up!”

  “And you killed him by accident,” I said with sudden realisation. “Because of his dysphagia. He choked.”

  Fletcher looked at me, his eyes blank. “I just wanted him to stop calling me stupid.”

  “Yes,” I said, as soothingly as I could manage. I wondered how long it would take the police to get here. I just had to keep Fletcher talking until then. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

  “I wanted a second chance,” said Fletcher brokenly. “Remember, you told me about that book—Persuasion? About the girl who gets a second chance—and the man she loves who comes back like a different person. Remember?”

  “Yes… yes, I remember,” I said nervously.

  “I want to come back like a different person. And you told me that people can have second chances and start again, if they want it badly enough. I want it badly enough. I want another chance. I wrote a letter to Gloucester College and asked if I could go back. They said no, because I cheated. EXCEPT I DIDN’T!” he yelled suddenly, smashing the hammer down on the coffee table.

  I cringed as the wooden surface splintered. I remembered Devlin telling me that Hughes’s head had been bashed in by a heavy, blunt instrument. My eyes were riveted on the hammer. Was that what Fletcher had used to kill Hughes?

  As if reading my mind, Fletcher said, “I thought Geoffrey would help me. Brad told me that Geoffrey had known about the cheating too. So I sent him a letter and asked him to come and see me. I was very polite, you see. I asked very nicely. I asked him to tell the college the truth—that it wasn’t me. That he and Brad did it and blamed it on me. But he wouldn’t!”

  “Oh… er… that wasn’t very nice of him,” I said inanely. I couldn’t believe I said that, but I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t want to get Fletcher riled up any more but I also didn’t want him to think I was being unsympathetic either, in case that angered him too.

  Fletcher’s hand clenched convulsively around the hammer and I took another step back.

  “He wouldn’t do it for me! And he said I’m not allowed to talk about the cheating ever again. He said if I told anyone about the cheating, then he would tell everybody that I killed Brad!”

  He shook his head vehemently. “But I didn’t mean to kill Brad! I just wanted him to stop laughing at me! And then… and then Geoffrey started calling me STUPID too! So I made him shut up…” Fletcher raised the hammer menacingly.

  “Ah… well, I’m not calling you stupid,” I said hastily. “In fact, I think you’re very clever, Fletcher. An absolute genius!”

  He looked at me, tilting his head like a puzzled dog. “I am not a genius. Why do you call me that, Gemma?”

  “Oh… er…” I stumbled backwards, feeling my way blindly. The living room windows were behind me and I remembered that they were open. If I could
reach them, maybe I could somehow dive through them, out into the garden…

  Okay, it was a silly idea but it’s hard to think clearly when you’re facing a maniac wielding a hammer. It was obvious to me now that Fletcher’s hold on reality was very tenuous. I didn’t know what might set him off.

  I took another step back, feeling the edge of the windowsill press suddenly against my hip. A wave of relief washed over me. At least I’d got here. Now if I could just—

  A black shape erupted out of the darkness outside and landed on the open window. I jumped back and screamed.

  Then I saw what was sitting on the windowsill.

  “Oh my God, Muesli! You stupid cat, you scared me half to death!” I gasped.

  Then I froze as I realised what I had just said.

  “DID YOU CALL MUESLI STUPID?” shrieked Fletcher, swinging the hammer above his head. He lunged at me, his eyes bulging.

  I screamed and dived to the side. There was a yowl and I saw a blur of tabby fur shoot past me, darting between Fletcher’s legs. He tripped, gave a cry, and pitched forwards, smashing his head against the side of the windowsill as he went down.

  Then all was silent.

  Slowly, I stood up, my heart still pounding in my chest. In the distance, I could hear the faint wail of sirens. Police—coming to my rescue. But there was no need anymore.

  I looked at the man in front of me, out cold on the floor. Then I looked at the nonchalant creature sitting a few feet away, placidly washing her face. I never thought that one day a little tabby cat would save my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I can’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.” Cassie shook her head as she stood next to me at the tearoom counter.

  “How do you think I felt?” I said wryly. “Standing there, facing my sweet, lovely, gentle chef who had suddenly turned into a hammer-wielding psycho!”

  Cassie squeezed my hand. “That must have been horrible.”

  I sighed. “Actually, do you know what was more horrible? When he came round and they handcuffed him and were leading him out… he was perfectly normal again. It was like he had flipped a switch or something.” I shuddered. “That was… I don’t know. Just awful and heart-breaking and scary and sad all at the same time.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t sleep when I finally got home on Thursday night after they’d finished questioning me at the police station—I just kept thinking about that.”

  Cassie gave me a sideways look. “I have to say, Gemma—you’re taking it all pretty well. I would be… well, I feel sick enough already and I wasn’t the one who had to face him.”

  “I do feel sick about it,” I admitted. “But at the same time, I feel like… well, it wasn’t really him, you know? I don’t know how to explain it. That wasn’t the Fletcher I knew—the Fletcher who was my friend, who had taught me so patiently to bake and who was that sweet, gentle guy. It was like he was…” I shook my head, sighing. “I don’t know… possessed or something. Like he was a different person.”

  “They’ll take that into account, won’t they?” said Cassie. “I mean, you could argue that Fletcher wasn’t in his right mind and wasn’t really aware of what he was doing…”

  “Yes, Devlin said he would make sure that Fletcher got a good solicitor—someone who had experience in such cases.”

  “And I hate to sound callous but… what are we going to do here?” Cassie waved a hand around the tearoom. “We’ve lost our chef.”

  I grimaced. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that. I’m a lot better at baking than I was and I think I’ve mastered a couple of Fletcher’s recipes, but I wouldn’t say I’m ready to take on the whole menu. Besides, even if you and I could make everything perfectly, who would serve the customers out here?” I sighed. “No, we need someone full-time in the kitchen.”

  “Well, I suppose you could go back to your original plan of hiring someone from London…”

  “There was one other idea…” I said reluctantly.

  “Yeah?”

  “My mother has volunteered to help out—just to tide us over until we can find someone suitable. I wouldn’t have said yes except that she’s really very good—her baking is absolutely divine—and she’d be working for free.”

  “Your mother!” Cassie bit back a laugh. “Bloody hell, Gemma, if she comes to work in the kitchen here, there’ll be another murder soon—and they won’t have to look very far for the culprit!”

  “Shut up,” I said, good-humouredly. “So, okay, my mother is a bit trying, but I’m an adult now. I’m sure I can manage a professional, working relationship with her.”

  “Yeah, right…” Cassie grinned. “I’m going to enjoy watching this from the sidelines.”

  I ignored her and walked over to flip the sign on the tearoom door to “OPEN”, thinking that I probably shouldn’t even bother. The tearoom had been completely closed yesterday, Friday, while the police wrapped up the case and I lay prostrate on my mother’s sofa. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but the whole experience had taken it out of me. To be honest, all I had wanted to do today was remain on my mother’s sofa, hiding from the world. But I had forced myself to come in. I felt that I owed it to myself—to my new self, anyway—to face my troubles and not run away from them (can you tell that I was brought up on repeats of The Sound of Music?).

  So I got here this morning at the same time as always and was grateful for the moral support when Cassie showed up soon afterwards. It felt strange and sad not having Fletcher arrive as well—he had become so much a part of my daily routine. Well, anyway, at least it won’t matter that we’re missing a chef today, I thought. It wasn’t as if we were going to have enough business to need it.

  But to my surprise, I was proven wrong. Ten minutes after we’d opened, we had several customers sitting at various tables and more coming through the door. Cassie and I exchanged wide-eyed looks as we rushed to serve them. Devlin had given a press conference yesterday and had made a point to stress that Fletcher had acted completely independently and that the murdered victims were not connected to the tearoom in any way. It looked like our reputation was slowly being repaired.

  If anything, the ghoulish curiosity and gawkers’ mentality had returned with a vengeance and, by lunchtime, we were run off our feet. Thank goodness I had finally mastered Fletcher’s scone recipe and made a fresh batch that morning, because our “Warm Scones with Jam & Clotted Cream” was the most popular item on the menu and several customers even asked eagerly if it was the same kind that was “used to murder the American tourist”.

  I felt a warm glow as I stood at the counter at lunchtime and looked out across the dining room, which hummed with laughter and conversation again. It seemed like my little tearoom might have a chance after all.

  “Is Seth free this evening?” I asked Cassie. “We must see if he can come and meet us for drinks at the Blue Boar. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him properly since the arrest and he must be dying for the details.”

  “Well, actually, he’s invited me to High Table this evening,” said Cassie.

  I turned to look at her in surprise. “He has?”

  Good old Seth—so he finally got up the courage to ask her. I smiled to myself.

  She returned my smile, not realising what it was for. “Yeah. It’s going to be weird returning to that world again. I might even go the whole hog and dig out my old gown.”

  “Well, you can tell Seth everything, then. And please thank him for me—if it hadn’t been for his help, I would never have figured out half the things in this mystery.”

  My phone rang and I was surprised to hear Lincoln’s voice on the line.

  “I missed the news last night and only just heard from my mother,” he said. “It’s unbelievable. I hope you’re okay, Gemma?”

  I was touched by his concern. “Yes, fine. He didn’t touch me. It was really more of a shock than anything else.”

  “Well… if you need someone to… uh… talk to… about anything,”
he said awkwardly.

  “Thanks, Lincoln—that’s very sweet of you.”

  “Um… I was also wondering… well, maybe we could meet up sometime next week, when things have settled down a bit?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Great.” I could feel his smile across the line. “I’ll give you a ring with the details. Take care of yourself, Gemma.”

  I ended the call, aware that Cassie had been listening with avid interest.

  “Ooh, sounds very cosy…” she said with a teasing smile. “Is that the dishy doctor asking you out on a date? I wonder what a certain handsome detective might have to say about that. And speaking of the devil… or the Devlin, in this case…”

  She nodded towards the windows where we could see a tall, dark-haired man step out of a black Jaguar XK parked at the curb. Reporters swarmed around him—yes, the press were back in force and camped outside the tearoom again—but he brushed them away like flies as he headed for our front door. A moment later, he came into the dining room.

  “I’ll leave you two to your tête-a-tête.” Cassie smirked as she turned and headed into the kitchen.

  I straightened to my full height as Devlin approached me. I hadn’t seen him since Thursday night when he had rushed in, white-faced, through Fletcher’s door. He had run up to me and, for one crazy moment, I had thought that he was going to pull me into his arms. Then—as his sergeant and other officers swarmed into the room—he had stepped back and asked rather formally if I was unharmed. Now, there was no sign of that tense man. Devlin was back to his usual laconic self, his blue eyes cool and guarded.

  “I see that business is back to normal,” he said, indicating the full dining room.

  “Yes, it’s a great relief,” I said, hiding a smile as I saw four pairs of geriatric ears turn in our direction. The Old Biddies weren’t at their usual table by the window but at one next to the counter, and I could see that they were delighted with this circumstance. They all leaned sideways, no doubt hoping to eavesdrop on my conversation with Devlin. He caught my eyes and his blue ones twinkled, letting me know that he was well aware of our listeners.