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

by H. Y. Hanna

  And to be honest, I wondered why Cassie was with him. Cassie had the typical fiery artist’s temperament, but with a warm, down-to-earth approach to life—and Jon Kelsey wasn’t her usual type at all. With his posh London accent, flashy car, and loud designer clothes, he was more the type that Cassie would normally only glance at with contempt.

  But maybe it was true that “flattery will get you anywhere”, because the honour of being chosen as such a high-flying art dealer’s latest protégée seemed to have gone straight to Cassie’s head. Or in this case, her heart. Their chance meeting at the Tate Modern gallery in London had turned into a whirlwind romance and now, barely three weeks later, Cassie was revelling in her status as the star of his newly opened gallery in Oxford.

  Not that her paintings really fit in there. That was another mystery. I knew that art dealers usually specialised in particular styles and, looking around the gallery, I could see that Jon seemed to favour huge empty canvases with random blobs of colour or strange Post-Minimalist pieces which resembled the products of a rubbish compactor. Cassie worked in a more traditional style and her paintings stood out like a paint-splattered sore thumb. I couldn’t understand why Jon had taken Cassie on.

  Then I glanced over at my friend again and thought maybe I could understand after all. At five foot two, Cassie was a classic “pocket Venus” and had the kind of curves I’d always envied. Rubens would have killed to paint her. And not just for her voluptuous figure. With her flashing dark eyes and generous mouth, she had a warm, sensual appeal that drew men like moths to a flame.

  At any rate, her launch party looked to be a raving success. The gallery was crammed with several art critics and wealthy collectors from Oxford, and there were just as many people admiring Cassie’s paintings as those looking at works by the more established artists. The gallery, housed in a converted 18th-century Georgian townhouse, provided the perfect elegant setting, and I had to admit that Jon had gone all out in hosting this party for Cassie. He had even set up a bar in the corner of the gallery, with a waitress mixing cocktails on demand for the guests.

  I raised my own glass of frozen lime daiquiri to my lips and took a sip. I didn’t normally drink much—okay, I admit, I’m a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol—but I had a weakness for cocktails and this was scrumptious. I glanced over at the creator of the drink—the waitress behind the bar, who was now opening the cocktail shaker and pouring out a drink for a man waiting by the counter. She looked like she could be a university student, with wispy blonde hair and a cute upturned nose, although her looks were spoiled by the sulky tilt of her mouth and the air of resentment that surrounded her like a black cloud. I glanced back at my own glass and decided wryly that I had better not annoy her at any point in this evening or heaven knew what she would put in my next cocktail!

  I looked at her again. She seemed so young… and then I grinned at my own thoughts. At twenty-nine, it seemed silly to label someone who was probably only six or seven years younger than me as “so young” but in a way, since returning to England, I did feel like I had left my youth behind. Well, I was a grown up now, with my own business to run. After eight years of climbing the corporate ladder Down Under, I had given it all up and come home on a crazy whim to open a tearoom in a quaint little Cotswolds village on the outskirts of Oxford.

  In fact, my feet were aching now from all the standing I had done today (Saturdays being one of our busiest days, as we were inundated with tourists keen to have the “English afternoon tea” experience) and I wished now that I hadn’t worn such high heels for the party tonight. I looked surreptitiously around for somewhere to sit—why were galleries always so devoid of furniture?—and spotted a couple of velvet upholstered chairs behind a pillar. However, my way there was blocked by a group of people standing around a large frame on the wall next to me.

  “Amazing,” said one woman, shaking her head admiringly.

  “Look at the use of white space, how it hints at the emptiness of our collective souls,” said another.

  The man next to her nodded. “I love how it just speaks… without speaking.”

  I leaned over eagerly to see what they were looking at. Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe I lacked the gene for art appreciation but it looked like they were all admiring a piece of blank A4 paper mounted on a board. Trust Jon Kelsey to stock the sort of pretentious rubbish that attracted all the top prats in Oxfordshire…

  “Hey… enjoying yourself?”

  I whirled around guiltily to see Cassie beside me. Were my recent thoughts about her boyfriend showing? Quickly, I pinned a bright smile on my face.

  “Yeah, fabulous.”

  Cassie gave me a look. “Gemma. You can’t fool me. I can see that you’re bored.”

  I shrugged helplessly. “Well, poncy modern art isn’t really my scene—”

  “Shhh!” said Cassie quickly, looking hastily around. The group next to us was still contemplating the brilliant talent required to create a blank piece of paper and she drew a breath of relief. She looked at me severely. “Gemma… this is great art!”

  “Aw, come on, Cass…” I sighed impatiently. “Don’t tell me you agree with them and think any of this stuff is good?”

  She avoided my eyes. “Well, you know my style is more traditional so I’m not really in a position to judge—”

  “Rubbish,” I said rudely. “This is like the Emperor’s New Clothes where nobody wants to come out and admit that he’s naked—or that this so-called art is stupid.”

  “Hush!” Cassie said, throwing a quick look around again.

  I frowned at her. Since when had my friend started to care so much about what other people thought? Cassie had always been unapologetically candid and outspoken—it was one of the things I’d always loved about her and envied her for. Unlike her, I hadn’t grown up in a large, rowdy family of creatives, dancers, and artists, all championing honest emotion and self-expression—I was the product of a stiff, middle-class British household where restraint and polite reserve were the ideals. Ever since we were little girls, Cassie had always said and done the things that I wished I dared. And yet recently, my free-spirited friend seemed to be disappearing.

  And I knew why. My gaze travelled resentfully across the room to the suave man in the brocade silk blazer. Jon bloody Kelsey.

  Still… I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe I was the one being unreasonable. This was an important night for Cassie—the first night of the opening of her exhibition—and surely it was understandable that she wanted to make a good impression?

  “Sorry, Cass.” I gave her a rueful smile. “Maybe it is just me and it’s my fault that I don’t get it.”

  “N-o-o…” she said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault. Maybe… well, maybe you just need someone to look at the art with you—you know, so you can share opinions and discuss the meanings behind the pieces…”

  If I studied that piece of A4 paper with a whole library of scholars for ten years, I still wouldn’t have a clue how it was supposed to mean anything. But I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself.

  “You know you could have brought a date tonight,” said Cassie slyly. “Maybe you should have asked Devlin if he had the night off?”

  “And why would I have asked him?”

  Cassie gave an innocent shrug. “Oh, I don’t know… Maybe because he used to be the love of your life and you are now both back in Oxford…” She grinned. “Not to mention the fact that he’s a dashing CID detective with looks worthy of James Bond?”

  “I told you, things between me and Devlin are over. That was eight years ago and we’re completely different people now.”

  “Exactly.” Cassie’s grin widened. “Maybe that’s why you guys might have a chance this time round.”

  I rolled my eyes. She was like a terrier with a bone on this subject. “You keep your sticky fingers in your own love life and out of mine,” I said.

  Cassie laughed. “Speaking of love life—has Seth got a girlfriend o
r something? I was really surprised when he told me he couldn’t come tonight and when I asked why, he was very evasive. You know how he never normally misses anything we’re involved in—he’s usually so supportive…” She sounded slightly wistful. “I wondered if there was a girl or something—someone he’s fallen head over heels for and now he’s abandoning his oldest chums?”

  I gave Cassie a sideways glance. I could make a good guess as to why Seth hadn’t come tonight. It wasn’t because of a girl he had—it was because of a girl he couldn’t have. Seth, Cassie, and I had been a firm trio since university days—ever since that first week in Michaelmas Term when we’d arrived as Freshers together. And I think Seth had been carrying a torch for Cassie ever since that first week too. But Cassie had only ever seen him as a good friend and shy, studious Seth had never got up the courage to try and change her mind.

  I had thought that things might be changing at last—I don’t know if my return to England had been a trigger or something—but recently, Seth seemed to be making hesitant attempts to get Cassie’s attention… a shy invitation to dinner, a sweet gift of flowers… then Jon Kelsey had arrived on the scene and swept Cassie off her feet. I imagined that the last thing Seth wanted to do was come tonight and stand around watching Cassie and Jon act like two lovebirds.

  I realised that Cassie was still waiting for my answer. “Um… I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe he’s got university society commitments.”

  After graduation, Seth had chosen to remain in the hallowed cloisters of Oxford University and had steadily climbed the rungs of the academic career ladder, recently taking up an appointment as one of the youngest Senior Research Fellows in Chemistry at Gloucester College.

  “Well, I think it’s very poor show and I shall tell him when I next see him,” Cassie grumbled. “I mean, I went to listen to his three-hour chamber music ensemble and that time when his colleagues decided to do a chemistry-themed pantomime!”

  Before I could answer, Jon Kelsey joined us, immediately sliding that possessive arm around Cassie’s waist again. I felt my hackles rising slightly, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I was a rampant feminist or anything, but there was something about the way Jon treated Cassie that made it feel as if she was a trophy. Not that she seemed to mind, I reminded myself—and that was all that mattered.

  “What are you girls nattering about?” said Jon with a patronising smile.

  “Nothing much,” I said quickly, before Cassie could answer. “This is a great party, Jon.”

  “Yes, my events are always first class,” he said. He looked down at Cassie and gave her a squeeze. “Nothing but the best for my artists. Especially my favourite artists.”

  Cassie flushed and giggled. I looked at her incredulously. Cassie didn’t giggle. She did big, hearty, belly laughs, or she chuckled evilly in amusement—but she didn’t giggle like a vapid schoolgirl. At least, not before she met Jon Kelsey, I thought sourly.

  “Oh, you’re wearing the new cufflinks I gave you!” said Cassie suddenly, pushing Jon’s suit sleeve back to look at his cuffs. “But… I thought you said you were going to wear the Cartier ones?”

  “I was but I couldn’t find one of them. Anyway, this being such a special night for you, I thought it was more fitting that I should wear yours. Not that I don’t think of you all the time…” He gave Cassie a squeeze.

  “Oh, you…!” Cassie giggled again and looked up at him adoringly.

  I couldn’t face the thought of standing there much longer, watching her make goo-goo eyes at Jon.

  “Excuse me, I’m just going to pop to the loo,” I said, giving them both a bright smile.

  They barely noticed my departure and I made my escape with relief. Threading my way through the crowds, I headed for the corridor at the other end of the gallery which led to the rear of the building. But as I approached the swinging doors of the public toilets, I noticed a slightly open door farther down the corridor. From the draught of cold air wafting in, I realised that it led outside, probably to the rear gardens.

  On an impulse, I walked down the corridor and out through the door, stepping into a courtyard filled with miniature trees and potted flowers. Slowly, I wandered across the flagstones, breathing in gratefully of the crisp night air. Everyone had told me that I would struggle with the cold winters back in England after the sunny climes Down Under, but it was actually the central heating that got to me. With the late November weather turning icy recently, everyone and their mother seemed to have put their central heating on full blast—and I spent half my time feeling irritable and muzzy-headed in the hot cloying atmosphere.

  There were a bunch of steps at the back of the courtyard, leading up to a second, raised level overlooking the whole garden—a sort of elevated terrace heavily planted with trees and shrubs. I went up and found a stone bench tucked into a corner behind a bush, and sank down on it gratefully. The night air was chilly and I hadn’t brought my coat, but I was so overheated that I didn’t mind it for the moment.

  I leaned back and savoured the panorama around me. The back of the garden must have been built on a natural hill and I was able now, from my raised position, to get a view of not only the whole garden but also the surrounding rooftops—the medieval towers, Gothic arches, elegant cupolas, and high parapets that made up Oxford’s “dreaming spires”. The gallery was located in the very heart of the historic university city and, once again, I was reminded of the breathtakingly beautiful architecture which made Oxford such a top tourist destination.

  I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky, clear and dark except for a sliver of moon and a smattering of a few stars. They looked strange and slightly upside down, now that I’d got used to the way the constellations looked in the Southern Hemisphere. I could see Orion’s Belt and, for the first time in eight years, the brilliant North Star shining in the night sky…

  The sharp acrid smell of smoke disturbed my thoughts and I glanced around. Although my raised position gave me a view of the whole courtyard garden, much of it was obscured by foliage and shadows. I saw a movement through the tops of the trees right below me, and as I leaned forwards to peer through a gap in the leaves, I saw that it was the waitress from behind the bar. Her pale hair gleamed in the moonlight. She had just come out of the rear door and was standing beside it, her hands cupped around her mouth. I saw the flicker of a flame and then the smell of smoke wafted across to me again. Obviously out for a ciggie break—although as I watched, she took a few furtive puffs, then hastily stabbed the cigarette out and pulled something out of her pocket. There was the sound of ripping plastic and then she slapped a small square patch onto her arm, muttering as she did so.

  I felt a twinge of empathy. I’d never tried smoking but I could understand the struggle to break free of an addiction. I sat back again, thinking that I really ought to return to the party—Cassie would probably be wondering where I was—but I was enjoying the peace and solitude out here. A few more minutes, I promised myself.

  Then I became aware of the sound of whispering.

  At first I thought it was the waitress, but then I realised that the sound was coming from the other side of the courtyard, in the shadows among the trees to the right. I shifted on the bench and peered into the darkness. On the level below me, I thought I could make out two figures, but it was difficult to see properly. I wouldn’t really have cared except that there was something in the urgent, furtive quality of the whispering which caught my attention. I leaned forwards, unconsciously straining my ears to discern the words.

  “Are we going to do it tonight?”

  “Relax… everything in good time.”

  “I… I can’t bear the waiting. The suspense is killing me!”

  There was a cold laugh. “You knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on.”

  Was this conversation for real? I felt like I had stepped into some kind of Cold War spy movie. I leaned forwards even more, trying to see through the darkness.
Yes, definitely two figures and, from their relative heights, a man and a woman perhaps? It had sounded like a woman who had spoken first. Was it the waitress after all? Perhaps she had crossed the courtyard to meet someone in secret there?

  I was just thinking of creeping closer when the sound of footsteps came from the other side of the garden. Someone coming out of the back door, a cough, and then the unmistakable sound of a striking match. That acrid smell of cigarette smoke again. Another smoker coming out to indulge in his habit.

  The couple in the shadows went silent, then there was a flurry of movement and, the next moment, the shadows were empty. I stood up hastily and rushed towards the steps, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I don’t know why, but suddenly I needed to know who they were. They had to have come into the garden from the back door so they must have been guests at the party. And one of the voices had sounded vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell with whispers—a voice lost all the tones and timbres you used for recognition—but there had definitely been something in the inflection…

  I dived down the steps, trying to take them two at a time, but my haste ended up being my undoing. I’d forgotten about my stupidly high heels and I slipped, toppling backwards.

  “Ahh!”

  I slid the rest of the way down on my bum and landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps.

  “Ow…” I groaned.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  I looked up. It was the man who had come out for a cigarette. He was standing over me, eying me with concern. I took the hand he offered and let him help me to my feet.

  “Yeah, fine, thanks,” I said, embarrassed. I glanced quickly around. “Did you see another couple out here just now?”

  “Another couple?” He looked around the empty courtyard in puzzlement. “No, I passed the bar waitress going back in as I was coming out, but then it was just you. I heard you cry out and saw you fall so I came over to help.”