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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Have you… er… tied up all the loose ends on the case?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. There wasn’t really much beyond what you’d discovered. Fletcher was one of the students implicated in the cheating scandal fifteen years ago and it turns out that he was used as a scapegoat by Washington. He was the ‘fall guy’, so to speak, and took the blame and punishment for the others’ crimes. He had a really tough time when he was sent down from Oxford—he went into a depression for six months and never managed to enrol at another university. After that, he just ended up drifting between various dead-end jobs. Effectively, the whole thing ruined his life.”

  “Poor sod,” I said with a sigh. “It really was unfair, what happened to him. I know murder is wrong but… well, you can’t help feeling that Washington—and Hughes—got what they deserved. And that Fletcher was almost driven to it.”

  Devlin looked at me curiously. “That’s an unusual attitude from someone who was almost a victim. Most people in your situation would be feeling betrayed and bitter—”

  “No.” I shook my head vehemently. “I don’t know how to explain it but I don’t hate Fletcher or fear him. I feel… sorry for him, really. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I was terrified on Thursday night and it was a horrible experience. In a way, I still feel sick when I think about it. But it was also like… well, I was trying to explain this to Cassie earlier—it was like it wasn’t him, you know? It was like I was facing a different person.”

  “That is the approach the defence lawyers are going to take,” said Devlin. “Manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He will probably go to a special facility, rather than prison.”

  I nodded, looking out of the tearoom windows. “I knew Fletcher—I understood him, I think. His mind was… well, he related to things differently from the rest of us. He had a very simplistic view of the world. And I don’t think he meant to hurt me that night—it wasn’t like it was premeditated or anything. He was just reacting. I think it was when I said the trigger word ‘stupid’, he flipped and totally forgot who I was. Like an animal backed into a corner lashing out. You can’t be bitter about a horse who kicks you because it’s scared, can you? It doesn’t understand what it’s doing and doesn’t do it with intention.”

  Devlin regarded me for a moment, then said, “I’m glad to hear you say that because I have a message for you from him.”

  “From Fletcher?”

  He nodded. “He’s obviously not allowed to have any contact with you—but he asked if I could pass a message on to you. Normally I wouldn’t allow it, but in this case… well, I guess I share your feelings. Anyway, he wanted me to give you this.”

  He handed me a crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded it slowly and read the childlike scrawl:

  I am very sorry, Gemma. I did bad things. I did not mean to hurt you. I hope you can forgive me one day.

  Fletcher.

  I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. “Please tell him… I’ve… I’ve forgiven him already.”

  Devlin inclined his head. “And he also asked if you could do one thing for him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Look after his cat. Make sure she goes to a good home.”

  I swallowed again. “Tell him I will.”

  I folded the piece of paper and tucked it into my pocket. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, I cleared my throat and said, “So my theory about the drug, Lassitomab, was completely wrong?”

  “Oh no, I think you were on the right track there. Washington did come to Oxford to persuade Hughes to approve the drug—and I think he was using the threat of exposure to force his old colleague’s hand. It just wasn’t the reason he was murdered. It was one of those rare coincidences—or maybe you could call it karma—that he happened to come to your tearoom, bump into Fletcher, and set everything in motion. Of course, he had his own personality to blame too. If he hadn’t been such a nasty bully, he might never have provoked Fletcher and would still be alive.”

  “And Justine?” I asked stiffly. “She did lie about her alibi on Saturday morning. Was that also nothing to do with Washington?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Devlin glanced over his shoulder to where the Old Biddies were still straining their ears. He turned his back to them and lowered his voice, so that I had to lean close to hear him. “Justine lied about her alibi, yes, because she didn’t want to admit where she had really gone that morning: to meet a respected member of Oxford City Council. She’s having an affair with him,” Devlin said baldly at my confused look. “But he’s married—and he’s hoping to run in the local elections next year—so it’s crucial that their liaison isn’t discovered by the public. Justine admitted everything to me and asked me to be discreet for her lover’s sake. I agreed. We often come across such situations in the course of CID investigations and we always try our best to respect the privacy of individuals if it doesn’t impact on the case.”

  “An affair with a council member…” I murmured.

  “That was the reason she rang you and asked to meet. She heard that you were asking questions about her alibi at the dance studio and she was worried that you would dig out the truth and spill it to everyone—so she was hoping to speak to you privately to ask for discretion.”

  I shook my head ruefully. “And here I thought she was luring me to my doom or something!” Something else occurred to me. “Oh, of course! My mother was wondering how Justine got the permit to park directly in front of her house so easily…”

  “Yes, I imagine her liaison comes with certain perks,” said Devlin with a wry smile. He paused, then added, “I hope you’ll believe me now when I say I wasn’t prejudiced towards Justine. I suppose you could say I was giving her special treatment of sorts—but only because I knew she wasn’t really a suspect in the case. Her lover verified her alibi—she was with him the whole time.”

  “Oh…” I looked down, embarrassed and ashamed of my past accusations now. “I… well… yes, I’m sorry if I doubted you. I realise now you were telling me the truth.”

  “Not quite,” said Devlin. He hesitated, then said, “I did lie to you, Gemma, about one thing.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “About what?”

  “I said that I would never let my personal feelings interfere with an investigation…” He met my eyes, his own very blue. “It was a good thing you weren’t a suspect in this murder, because I would have broken my own rule.”

  I stared at him, my heart thudding in my chest. He smiled slightly and reached out, brushing his fingers along my cheek—a feather-light caress which sent goose bumps across my skin. I was conscious of the Old Biddies watching us, goggle-eyed, from the nearby table.

  “I’ll see you around, Gemma.” Devlin winked at me, turned, and left.

  I stood staring at the door for a long time after he had gone.

  The next morning, I arrived bright and early at the tearoom. It was Sunday and as I walked about the dining room, drawing back the curtains, switching on the lights, arranging the tables and chairs, I couldn’t believe that it had been a little over a week since I had gone about these same rituals, preparing for the day, never knowing that, in a few hours, I would be meeting a man who would be murdered in my tearoom. So many things had happened in the past week!

  “Morning!” Cassie sailed in through the front door, a smile on her face. She was clutching a tabloid newspaper in her hands. “We’re becoming a fixture on the front page…” Her smile widened and she gestured towards the outside of the windows. “But this time, they can talk about us as much as they like! It’s great for business!”

  I glanced out of the windows and saw that she was right. Already, there was a small crowd forming in the street outside, waiting for the tearoom to open. I felt my own face light up.

  “What are we going to do about the food, though?” asked Cassie worriedly. “I mean, with so many customers—and no proper chef yet—”

  I turned to her. “Well, actually, Cassie, speaking of a chef
…”

  As if on cue, the tearoom door opened and my mother stepped in, looking resplendent in a vintage gingham dress with an enormous frilly apron and a white chef’s hat perched atop her perfect coiffure. I gaped at her.

  “Mother, why are you dressed like that?”

  “What do you mean, darling? Helen Green has been helping me with my outfit and she assures me that this is the latest thing in cuisine wear.”

  “Yeah, if it’s 1940,” I muttered, trying to ignore Cassie grinning in the corner.

  “It’s vital to look the part, you know, now that I’m a ‘working woman’,” said my mother importantly. “Now, where is the kitchen, darling? Oh yes, through here… no, don’t worry, I can sort myself out…”

  Her voice faded away as she went through the swinging door, only to get louder again a moment later as she called out: “Oh, by the way, darling, Helen was telling me about this exciting thing called Twitcher. She says I simply must get onto it and then I can twitch all the time! And people will follow me and I’ll be able to tell them all about what I’m baking in the kitchen—as it’s happening! Isn’t that just marvellous? But I’ll need you to show me how to do it. Apparently, I can do it right from my phone…”

  I groaned and covered my face with my hands, while Cassie fell about in uncontrollable laughter. Taking a deep breath, I removed my hands from my face. It was okay. I could do it. I had faced a maniacal murderer. Dealing with my mother should be a piece of cake…

  EPILOGUE

  The low brick building rose in front of me and I paused, setting the cat carrier down on the ground next to me. I could see a young couple coming out of the sliding doors, their faces wreathed in smiles as they looked down at the fluffy puppy in their arms. Passing them in the other direction, heading into the building, was a family with a child who pointed eagerly to the poster on the wall, showing a kitten with the words: “Adopt a cat today and take home your new friend!”

  I looked back down at the cat carrier by my feet. Muesli’s little face showed through the bars. She was eyeing her surroundings curiously, her ears pricked and her whiskers quivering as she took in the sights and sounds.

  “Meorrw?” she said, looking up at me.

  She’ll find a good home here, I told myself. Oxford Animal Shelter had one of the best reputations in the country and the shortest times for rehoming. Muesli wouldn’t have to stay in a cage for long… and she’d make friends with the other cats… and have the chance to find a family who’d be able to lavish her with love and attention…

  There was no other option really. No one else could look after her and I didn’t even have my own place—there was no way she could live at my parents’ house, where she would probably shred their cream silk upholstery and dig in my mother’s prize flowerbeds… Besides, I was busy at the tearoom all day and didn’t have the time for a pet…

  No, no, this was definitely the best option for her and I knew I was doing the right thing.

  So why did I feel so awful?

  I took a deep breath, picked up the carrier, and walked into the shelter building. There were several people ahead of me and I had to wait my turn at the reception. Finally, a woman behind the counter smiled and asked if she could help. I explained my mission.

  “You’ll have to fill out some information about the cat—the more you can tell us, the more it’ll help us place her in a suitable home,” she said, handing me a clipboard with a form attached.

  I heaved the cat carrier up onto the counter next to me, then picked up the pen and began filling in the spaces.

  Name: Muesli

  Age: 1+ year?

  Breed: Moggie

  Colour: Grey tabby with white chest and paws

  Sex: F

  Vaccinated: Yes

  Spayed: Yes

  Microchipped: Yes

  Personality & quirks: very sociable and inquisitive, talkative, bit of an escape artist, likes to hide under rugs and ambush your ankles when you walk past, enjoys belly rubs for 2.5 seconds then freaks out, hides in boxes, will come when called…

  I stopped and stared at what I’d written. Next to me, Muesli stuck a little paw through the bars of her carrier and batted my hand playfully, trying to catch the pen tip.

  “Meorrw!” she said.

  “All finished?” The woman came back and smiled at me. She reached out to take the form. “You can hand her over to us now and we’ll get her settled—”

  “Actually…” I held on to the clipboard, pulling it back from her. “I… I’ve changed my mind.”

  She looked at me in surprise. I pulled the form off the clipboard and crumpled it up.

  “I’d like to buy some cat supplies—I thought I could get them from the shelter store and have the money go to a good cause…”

  “Oh, that’s very kind.” The woman smiled at me warmly. “What would you like to buy, dear?”

  “Um…” I couldn’t believe I was doing this. “A cat litter tray and a couple of bowls… and a cat bed, I guess?”

  “You’ll need a scratching post as well,” said the woman with a grin. “And some food. And maybe some toys. We’ve got some gorgeous new feather mice, which have been very popular. And some kitty treats would be nice too—to reward good behaviour.”

  “Do cats even know the meaning of those two words?” I asked dryly.

  She laughed out loud. “Sounds like you’re all set to be a cat owner.” She poked a gentle finger at the cat carrier next to us. “She’s gorgeous! I love her little pink nose and those beautiful green eyes with that black eye liner… what’s her name?”

  I looked at the little tabby and felt an unexpected flash of pride. “Muesli,” I said. “Her name is Muesli. Like the cereal.”

  “Muesli! What an adorable name!” She laughed as Muesli put out a playful paw again and batted her finger. “I can see that you’re going to have a lot of fun with her.”

  Yeah, a lot of fun, I thought sourly as I found myself back outside the shelter building, staggering under the weight of a ton of feline paraphernalia. I must be mad, I told myself. What am I doing adopting a cat?

  “Meorrw?” said Muesli from the carrier next to me.

  I glanced down at the little tabby face and scowled. “And don’t think you’re coming on my bed.”

  “Meorrw,” said Muesli complacently.

  As I was beginning to learn, cats always got the last word.

  FINIS

  Catch Gemma’s (and Muesli’s) next adventure in:

  Tea with Milk and Murder

  (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2)

  BUY NOW: AMAZON | AMAZON UK

  Want to get a FREE review copy of Book 2?

  Send the link of your Amazon review for A Scone To Die For (Book 1) to: contact@hyhanna.com – and you can read Book 2 for free!

  While at an Oxford cocktail party, tearoom owner Gemma Rose overhears a sinister conversation minutes before a University student is fatally poisoned. Could there be a connection? And could her best friend Cassie’s new boyfriend have anything to do with the murder?

  Gemma decides to start her own investigation, helped by the nosy ladies from her Oxfordshire village and her old college flame, CID detective Devlin O’Connor. But her mother is causing havoc at Gemma’s quaint English tearoom and her best friend is furious at her snooping… and this mystery is turning out to have more twists than a chocolate pretzel!

  Too late, Gemma realises that she could be the next item on the killer’s menu. Or will her little tabby cat, Muesli, save the day?

  Here is an excerpt:

  CHAPTER ONE

  You know your social life needs work when your first Saturday night out in months ends in murder.

  Of course, murder was the last thing on my mind as I peered over the heads in the crowd, trying to see what people were looking at. From their excited murmurs and pointing and whispering, I expected some scene of horrific carnage—or a naked woman at the very least.

  It turned out to be just a big grey s
quare with a red blob in the middle. Apparently, from the heated discussion going on between two of the spectators next to me, the red blob could either represent the surrealism of perfect geometric form or the angst of the artist’s tormented search for his mother’s approval but certainly not the pent-up aggression of today’s youths.

  I sighed and turned away from the crowd. This just confirmed to me that I didn’t “get” modern art. You may wonder, then, what I was doing wandering around a contemporary art gallery on a precious Saturday evening off work. Well, I was there to support my best friend, Cassie, who was an artist (and not of the grey-square-with-red-blob variety either)—and she was having her first exhibition, with tonight being the opening night party.

  I looked across the room and saw her, face beaming and cheeks flushed—though I wasn’t sure how much of it was from the excitement of her first exhibition and how much from the proximity of the tall, attractive man next to her. Jon Kelsey. Owner of the gallery, art dealer extraordinaire, and general smooth operator. As I watched, Cassie flushed even more while Jon slipped a possessive arm around her waist and bent down to say something to her. She giggled, then looked across the room and caught my eye. I hurriedly changed my grimace into a smile.

  Yeah, I have to confess, I didn’t like Cassie’s new boyfriend much and I’m a bit ashamed of my feelings. I know, I know—I should’ve just been pleased that my friend had found someone she loved and was happy—and believe me, I’ve tried really hard to like him—but there was something about Jon Kelsey that put me off. He was just a bit too handsome, too smooth, too arrogantly self-assured. It seemed unfair to take against a man just because he was too charming, but something about Jon Kelsey made me bristle.