Muffins and Mourning Tea (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 5)

by H. Y. Hanna

  It swung open now to reveal a slim figure: a tall blonde girl with exotic good looks and a Louis Vuitton bag slung over her shoulder. Tanya. She stepped through the door, followed by an older bearded man in a tweed jacket and shabby corduroy trousers. As I watched, Tanya said something carelessly to him, then the two of them began walking down the lane, away from me.

  I hesitated for a second, then, on an impulse, slammed the car door and darted down the lane after the girl.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Tanya?”

  She swung around. “Yes?”

  It was the same deep, husky voice I remembered from the bridge yesterday morning. She was looking at me with surprise, obviously wondering who I was and why I was calling her. I realised belatedly that I hadn’t planned this properly. I had no idea what to say, no ready excuse to give.

  “Yes?” she said again, impatiently.

  The older man rushed forwards. “If you are from newspaper, you will go! She will not speak to you!”

  He glowered at me from beneath bushy eyebrows, looking like an angry terrier protecting its mistress. He had a heavy Russian accent—oh yes, there was no doubting his accent: he sounded exactly like the Russian gangsters in all the Hollywood movies—and he was dressed in a dark brown tweed jacket, a matching waistcoat, olive green corduroys, and a faded silk neckcloth tucked into his lapel. He looked slightly ridiculous, almost as if he had stepped out of the pages of a book about nineteenth-century Russian scholars, and I half expected him to pull out a pocket watch to consult the time.

  “It is okay, Mikhail,” said Tanya, waving her hand. She looked at me curiously. “What do you want?”

  “I’m not from the press,” I said quickly. “I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About your boyfriend, Charlie. I was… um… on the bridge next to you yesterday morning. It must have been… uh… terrible for you.”

  Her eyes softened for a moment, then the impression disappeared, replaced by a mask of cool indifference. Whatever she might have felt about her boyfriend, she certainly didn’t intend to show it in public.

  “It was not nice. I do not want to talk about it,” she said shortly.

  “She does not want to talk about it!” barked Mikhail, still glaring at me.

  “Oh, of course, I’m sorry.” I hesitated, casting around for another way to continue the conversation. Just as I was thinking I might have to accept defeat and slink away, the Russian girl surprised me by speaking up.

  “You say you were on bridge next to us?”

  I nodded. “I was standing right beside you and Charlie when the choir was singing, although I got pushed aside afterwards when everyone was cheering and jumping about.”

  “The same for me also,” said the girl. “When they start to cheer, people move around and hug each other, and I was pushed away from Charlie.”

  I hesitated, then said gently, “I didn’t see him go over the side of the bridge. The crowd got so rowdy, I didn’t notice anything until I heard the splash. Did you… did you see what happened?”

  “No,” she said. “It is same for me. The crowd was excited, they push me aside… and then I hear splash. I run to side of bridge and I look down and see his body…” Her mouth twisted at the memory.

  “Had he been planning to jump? I know it’s a tradition for students to jump off the bridge on May morning so maybe—”

  “No, it was not his plan.”

  “Then why do you think—”

  “I do not know!” she burst out. “The police—they ask me same thing! Why? How? What happened? I say, I do not know! I did not see! There is nothing… except that barbecue skewer. The weapon that killed him. Yes, that I can answer. That I know—it is same one that was from Charlie’s scout. I tell police: it is to her that they must ask questions.”

  “But Charlie’s scout said that she lent the skewer to you, for your costume, and it hadn’t been returned to her. So you were the last one who—”

  She gave me a contemptuous look. “That old woman. She does not tell truth. Charlie is her malysh—her baby—and she does not like me. I know, she does not think I am good enough girl for him. And now she wants to put blame on me.”

  I was slightly taken aback. This was a new slant on Miriam Hopkins that I hadn’t considered.

  “Have you told the police this?” I asked.

  “Yes, I speak to that detective. The handsome one with blue eyes. Detective Inspector O’Connor.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “A very interesting man, no? He is not what I expect from English police.”

  “He is imbecile, like all other English police,” growled Mikhail. “They should not be questioning you. They should be speaking to that boy, the roommate. Without a doubt, he is lzhets—a dirty liar.”

  “Damian?” I said quickly. “Do you think he’s involved?”

  “Of course he is involved,” Tanya spat. “He is weasel. He should not have been Charlie’s friend.”

  “They are both same,” said Mikhail. “Even Charlie—he was just stupid English boy. I do not understand why you stay with him.”

  Tanya gave a bitter smile. She seemed to treat the older man like some kind of overprotective guard dog, to be tolerated for his amusing devotion.

  “Mikhail does not understand,” she said to me. “He is too old and serious; he cares only for his books and his thesis. He does not know what it is like to be young and in love.”

  The older man bristled. “I know about Romance. We Russians—we have great novels about love. There is no love story greater than Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. It is classic! It is pinnacle in history of literature!”

  Tanya’s eyes were bleak. “Yes, and it also ends in death.”

  ***

  My conversation with Tanya and Mikhail had given me a lot to think about but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to share it with Dora, so when I got back to the tearoom, I kept quiet about the chance meeting. In any case, things were busy enough that I soon put aside the mystery of Charlie Foxton’s murder and concentrated on serving customers.

  But as I was shutting up for the day, the memory of the conversation came back to me and I decided to ring Devlin and see what he thought. As I picked up my phone, I frowned. I hadn’t heard from him all day and hadn’t he said last night that he would ring? Wasn’t that a bit odd? Then I chided myself. We weren’t the kind of couple that lived in each other’s pockets and I certainly didn’t expect Devlin to make a “duty call” every day. Besides, he had probably been stuck in the interview room all day, interrogating witnesses, and hadn’t had a moment free to himself. Still, I’d give him a ring and, if he was unavailable, I could just leave him a message.

  I couldn’t get through on his phone so I tried Oxfordshire CID but to my surprise, when I was put through to Devlin’s sergeant, he told me that his senior officer had left already.

  “Oh…” I said. “I thought he might be working late on this new murder case—”

  “Yeah, that’s right—he’s got a bunch of reports and statements to go over. But he said he was going to take ’em home and do it back at his place.”

  “That’s strange—I just tried his mobile and there was no answer.”

  “Like as not, he’s switched his phone off,” said the sergeant. “He does that sometimes when he’s working, otherwise it would be going non-stop.”

  “Oh, right… I guess that must be it.”

  I hung up, vaguely unsettled, but tried to ignore the feeling. Instead, I finished closing up and set off home. I arrived back at the cottage to find something waiting for me on the front doorstep: a big plastic pot with a strange spindly tree growing out of it, its large, broad leaves spread out in a circle, almost like a parasol. There was a note attached to the base of the stem and I picked it up gingerly. I recognised my mother’s elegant handwriting:

  Darling,

  Saw this and thought it would be perfect for your cottage! It’s a Taiwanese dwarf umbrella tree and it can grow up to 6 metres! Perfect for any size house and evergreen
too. Don’t forget to water regularly—but not too wet. And make sure you find a good spot to put it. The ideal setting is directly in front of an east-, west-, or south-facing window with a sheer curtain to diffuse the direct sunlight.

  I sighed and unlocked the door, then slowly pushed the pot inside. Muesli came trotting up to greet me, then froze in her tracks, staring at the potted tree. The tip of her tail twitched as she stretched her neck forwards and sniffed one of the leaves suspiciously.

  “Say hello to our new housemate, Muesli,” I said wryly. “A Taiwanese dwarf umbrella tree.”

  I dumped my bag and coat on a nearby chair and looked around in exasperation. Where was I going to put this new plant? It would have to go in the corner by the window, next to that monstrous sago palm thing. At the rate my mother was going, the cottage was going to look like a miniature botanic garden soon.

  I had to move a few boxes aside to have enough room to push the pot through, and by the time I was finished installing my new umbrella tree in the right position, I was panting and sweating and covered in dust. A hot shower, I thought, and then I’ll rustle up some dinner and have a nice relaxing evening with a book…

  However, when I finally wandered into the kitchen an hour later and pulled out a microwave meal from the freezer, I looked at it without much enthusiasm. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out in front of me and the prospect of spending it curled up in the middle of a mountain of cardboard boxes didn’t really appeal.

  Then I had an idea. Why was I sitting here having my dinner alone, when I could spend it with my boyfriend? I glanced at the clock. It was nearly eight o’clock—even if he was working, surely Devlin would appreciate a break for dinner? I’ll pop over and surprise him, I thought with a smile. He always kept his kitchen well stocked. I could rustle up something there for both of us, then we could spend the rest of the night curled up in front of his nice flat-screen TV.

  Delighted with my idea, I bundled Muesli into her cat carrier, then hopped into the car, pleased that I hadn’t returned it to my parents yet. The drive to Devlin’s place was fairly quick, although twilight was drawing in by the time I got there. With summer around the corner, the days were getting longer now and the sun wasn’t setting until nearly eight-thirty. I pulled up in front of Devlin’s house—a converted barn set in a quiet country lane—then felt my happy anticipation drain away.

  The house looked empty, the windows dark.

  I got out of the car and walked over to the front windows, peering in to see if there was a light on at the back of the house—perhaps Devlin was working in the kitchen or something. But no, the place looked empty, and when I tried the doorbell a moment later, it rang hollowly, with no answer.

  I stepped back from the front door, frowning. Had Devlin gone out again?

  But surely if he had come home and then gone out again, he would have put on the lights and drawn the curtains? A typical policeman, Devlin was paranoid about security and was always careful about leaving lights on in advance if he planned to be out after dark. Besides, the curtains weren’t even drawn. It looked like no one had been back to this house since Devlin had left this morning. And yet his sergeant had sounded so sure that Devlin was coming straight home from the station…

  I tried his number again and, once again, got no answer. Walking slowly back to the car, I stared out into the gathering darkness.

  Where was he?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As if in answer to my question, headlights swung suddenly around the corner of the road and caught me in their glare. I raised a hand to shield my eyes as a black Jaguar XK pulled into the driveway. It was Devlin’s car. The driver’s door swung open and he got out. As he strode towards me, the streetlights caught his handsome profile and glinted on his wavy dark hair. I noted that he was wearing a sharply tailored Italian suit—his usual workwear—instead of something more casual… so I was right in thinking that he hadn’t come home from work and then gone out again.

  “Gemma!” There was surprise and something else in his voice. A note of dismay?

  “Hi… I thought I’d come over and surprise you,” I said.

  He bent to give me a swift kiss. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, I just arrived…” I hesitated, then added casually, “Your sergeant said you were coming straight back here from the station to do some paperwork at home.”

  Devlin gave a nonchalant laugh. “Yes, I did plan to do that—but then I had a few leads to follow up.”

  “About the May morning murder?”

  His blue eyes slid away from mine. “No… it’s another thing I’m working on…”

  “Oh? Another murder case?”

  “You know I can’t always talk about my cases, Gemma,” he said, turning quickly away and busying himself opening the front door.

  I didn’t reply but, as I followed him into the house, I couldn’t help thinking that Devlin had never minded sharing details with me before. I knew he trusted my discretion, and in the past he had even brainstormed problems with me. Why was this any different? An uneasy thought entered my head. Maybe Devlin was lying and his reason for not coming home was nothing to do with work…

  I pushed the thought away and hurriedly let Muesli out of her cat carrier. She scampered around in delight, re-acquainting herself with Devlin’s place, rubbing her chin against the corners of his couch and the edges of his bookshelves. I followed Devlin into the kitchen and watched as he poured us both a drink. He looked tired, his dark hair slightly ruffled and a hint of stubble showing along his jawline. He had taken off his suit jacket and his tie, and undone the top few buttons, so that the tanned, muscular column of his chest showed starkly against the crisp white cotton of his shirt.

  For a moment, I flashed back to when we had been students at college together and how Devlin had looked just like this after an all-nighter to complete an essay before a tutorial. Except that he hadn’t looked so pre-occupied then and there hadn’t been that strange, distant expression in his piercing blue eyes.

  I cleared my throat. “Um… so how is it going with the May morning murder? Did you speak to Charlie Foxton’s girlfriend yesterday afternoon? What’s she like?”

  Devlin shrugged. “On the face of it, she seems like any other spoilt little rich girl. Her father’s Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov, one of the richest men in Russia. The girl’s name is Tatiana—Tatiana Vladimirovna Koskov.”

  “Wow, talk about impressive name.”

  “Actually, one of our police constables is of Russian descent and he was explaining Russian naming traditions to us. Apparently everyone has three names: their first name, their last name, and then a special kind of middle name which is actually a patronymic—it’s made up of their father’s name and a suffix, like –ich if you’re male or –ovna if you’re female. So your name, if you were Russian, would be Gemma Philipovna Rose. Tanya is called Tatiana Vladimirovna—after her father, Vladimir. He, in his turn, is called Vladimir Ivanovich, after his father, Ivan.”

  I laughed. “People don’t seriously go around using such long names? They’re such a mouthful!”

  “I think they get used to it. Most Russians never use the full name except on legal documents. In the workplace and in formal situations you always call someone by their first name and the patronymic. Well, unless you’re their boss, then you can use just their first name. So, for example, I could call my sergeant by his first name alone but he would have to call me by my first name plus the patronymic. Confused yet?” Devlin grinned at me. “And just to make it even more complicated, when Russians are with close friends and family, they don’t even use first names—they use a ‘short’ version of their name, like a sort of nickname.”

  “Oh… like Tanya instead of Tatiana.”

  “Yes, although I think Tanya has decided to simplify things while she’s here in England and just call herself Tanya Koskov.”

  “Thank goodness for that! So did you get anything out of her?”

  “Mm… Yes,
she had some interesting things to say—including identifying the murder weapon as belonging to Foxton’s scout and suggesting that she might have something to do with the murder.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I said hotly. “Miriam can’t have murdered anyone!”

  Devlin eyed me sharply. “Miriam? You know her?”

  I flushed slightly, ruing my unguarded tongue. “Yes, actually, she’s Dora’s friend—she came over to the tearoom yesterday afternoon. They used to work as scouts together at Wadsworth College, before Dora retired. Miriam has transferred over to Haverton College now. Anyway, you know all this. Dora told me that your sergeant questioned Miriam last night.”

  “Yes, and I spoke to her again this morning.”

  “Oh?” I looked at Devlin warily. I knew he wouldn’t have made the effort to question Miriam again unless she was a strong suspect. “Surely you don’t really consider her a suspect?”

  “She has no alibi for the time of the murder. She told us that she wasn’t anywhere near Magdalen Bridge on May morning, and yet when my sergeant spoke to her neighbour—a Mrs Fisk—her neighbour says that she saw Miriam Hopkins leave her house at around 4:30 a.m. that morning.”

  “What was the neighbour doing up at that time?” I asked sceptically.

  “Mrs Fisk suffers from insomnia. She couldn’t sleep so she got up to make a milky drink. Her kitchen window faces out the front and she distinctly saw Miriam leaving her house before dawn. She noticed because it seemed unusual. In fact, she wondered if Miriam was going to join the May morning celebrations.”

  “Did you ask Miriam about it?”

  “Yes, she says she couldn’t sleep either and got up early to go for a walk at the local park. Of course, she saw nobody there so there’s no one to corroborate her statement.”