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

by H. Y. Hanna

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I finally left the kitchen, I felt troubled and uneasy. Dora seemed to think that I could fix everything for her friend, but I had no idea how to do that. And even if I did, I was uncomfortably aware of Devlin’s warning last night not to get involved in the murder investigation. I didn’t want to let Dora—and Miriam—down, but I didn’t want to antagonise Devlin either. Aaargh! I felt like I was stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place.

  It was a busy morning again and I was grateful to the Old Biddies for coming in to help out. We had worked out an unofficial arrangement a few months ago when Mabel and her friends discovered that they loved the chance to gossip with—er, I mean, serve—the customers in the tearoom and so they had decided to help out on a regular basis. They flatly refused any payment for their time, so I repaid them the best I could by offering them free access to the tearoom’s menu and, of course, the use of the tearoom itself as a sort of Seniors HQ and meeting place with their friends.

  So far, the arrangement was working out better than I could have ever imagined. Mabel delighted in treating the place as “her” tearoom, showing it off to her friends in the village and bossing everybody around, and the tourists seemed to think that being served by four little white-haired old ladies was part of the tearoom’s charm.

  “I took a phone call from a College Steward about the catering order you delivered yesterday,” said Cassie during a brief lull mid-morning. “He said that the High Tea was a raving success and everyone was asking where the food had come from. Next time, you should leave some business cards for people to take away.”

  I groaned. “That’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure this will be the first of many catering jobs, if the Steward’s comments were anything to go by,” said Cassie with a grin.

  “Oh, I hope so,” I said fervently.

  “Seriously, though, Gemma, if things keep up, you might even need to think about hiring another waitress,” said Cassie. “I mean, if the Old Biddies weren’t helping, we’d be totally swamped—especially if you had to start popping out to deliver catering orders all the time.”

  “Mmm, you’re right… I’ve been lucky so far with the Old Biddies always providing an extra pair of hands, but I suppose I shouldn’t get used to relying on them.”

  “Still, I don’t think they’re going anywhere soon,” said Cassie with a laugh. “Not unless Oxfordshire CID offered them a job! You should have heard Mabel this morning—she was in full stride just before you arrived, acting like she was giving a press conference on the May Day murder.”

  I made a face. “I suppose she heard the village gossip about Miriam Hopkins benefiting from Charlie Foxton’s will?”

  Cassie nodded. “She was the one who told Dora. She heard everyone talking about it at the village post shop this morning and rushed here to tell us.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any doubt that it’s true?”

  “Well, I guess you’d better double-check with Devlin just to be sure. There were some other wild theories being bandied about, so perhaps this is just a rumour too… but I got the impression that this was real.”

  “What other theories?” I asked.

  Cassie laughed. “Oh, some pretty silly stuff. The most outlandish one was that Miriam Hopkins is a member of the MI5 Secret Service and that she assassinated Charlie as part of a political assignment!”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Where do people get these ideas from?” Then I sobered. “Still, I wonder if there could be a political motive?”

  Cassie stopped laughing and stared at me. “You’re not taking that suggestion seriously?”

  “No, no, not about Miriam being an assassin—of course not! But there was something…” I frowned in an effort to remember. “That morning, after the May Day celebrations, everybody was discussing the murder here in the tearoom and I overheard a group of Aussie backpackers talking about it. One of them had apparently being standing on the bridge next to Charlie Foxton, and he said he heard someone cry out just before Charlie went over the bridge.”

  Cassie looked at me, puzzled. “So?”

  “So… what if it was the murderer he had heard crying out?”

  “Saying what? ‘Die, you victim!’ as he stuck the knife into Charlie?” asked Cassie, chortling.

  I gave her a reproachful look. “No, but it was something weird.”

  “What did he hear?”

  I closed my eyes briefly, then recited slowly: “‘NATO joy evict’… Yes, that’s what he said he heard. A cry like ‘Aagh!’ and then ‘NATO joy evict’.”

  “NATO joy evict?” Cassie furrowed her brow. “You think he was talking about NATO? As in the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation—the alliance of countries that are against using nuclear activity in war?”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought it was—which is why I wondered if there might be some kind of political motive.”

  “Did Charlie Foxton have any political leanings?” asked Cassie sceptically.

  “I don’t think so. I’ll have to check with Devlin but he didn’t mention anything. I’m sure the police would have checked that angle as part of the general background on the victim, and if Charlie had been involved with any radical political groups, Devlin would have mentioned it. Still—”

  We were interrupted by the tinkling of the bells attached to the front door and we both looked over to see three people enter the tearoom. My eyes widened in surprise as I recognised my parents. They were accompanied by an elderly man with bushy beard and eyebrows.

  “Darling!” My mother hurried forwards. I realised as she came towards me that she was holding something and my heart sank as I saw what it was. Yes, you guessed it: another weird-looking plant. This one had long green leaves shaped like sword blades and a strange spiky orange thing in the centre that looked like a skinny pineapple.

  “What on earth is that?” I demanded.

  “It’s a bromeliad, darling!” said my mother, beaming. “It’s marvellous at maintaining the humidity indoors. And—unlike other indoor plants—it actually releases oxygen during the night. So this way, combined with the other plants in the cottage, you will have round-the-clock air purification!”

  At this rate, I was also going to have round-the-clock nightmares from all the creepy plants I was living with. Still, I accepted the spiky bromeliad with as much good grace as I could muster and stowed it hastily behind the counter. Then I turned to look at their guest questioningly.

  My mother waved an airy hand. “This is Professor Obruchev, darling—remember I told you that he was coming to visit? We’ve been taking him for a little drive around the Cotswolds and thought that we just had to stop at your tearoom for some morning tea!”

  The elderly man came forwards with both hands outstretched, his face beaming beneath his whiskers. “Ah! It is great pleasure to meet beautiful daughter of my colleague!”

  I stifled a laugh at his old-fashioned, gallant manner. He was a stoop-shouldered man with twinkling brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows and a bushy beard that obscured half his face. He was dressed like he had stepped out of a period drama, in a three-piece suit of faded brown, with a spotted neckcloth and vintage brogues. And he had a thick Russian accent to match. In fact, he reminded me of another Russian scholar that I had met recently: Tanya’s friend, the pompous, belligerent Mikhail. Professor Obruchev was a lot older, though, and more than that, he had a happy, smiling manner that couldn’t have been more different from the other grumpy Russian scholar.

  He clapped his hands now as he looked around the tearoom and said with enthusiasm, “Your parents tell me that you serve full traditional English tea. I have had some tea at my hotel but they assure me that this will be very different experience!”

  I grinned. His ebullience was infectious and seemed to lift the mood of the whole tearoom. I saw Cassie chuckling from behind the counter and several customers look over and smile as I led him and my parent
s to a table by the windows. They sat down and Professor Obruchev scanned the menu with great interest, making little exclamations as he went down the list.

  “Ah! The scones! I have heard much about them… and the crumpets also… yes, yes… and Victoria sponge cake—this is English cake made for the Queen, no? Ah, and I know cheesecake—in Russia, I eat cheesecake also but it is different. It is called zapekanka. They make it with Farmer’s Cheese and raisins and we eat for breakfast.”

  “Cheesecake for breakfast? My goodness!” said my mother.

  “It is very healthy, I assure you!” said Professor Obruchev. Then he adjusted his spectacles and peered at the menu. “But this… I do not understand… finger sandwiches? It cannot be! I have not heard that the English—they eat the fingers?”

  I laughed. “That’s just the name—because the sandwiches are cut up into small rectangular segments called ‘fingers’. They are very dainty. They’re supposed to be a light snack eaten with afternoon tea and they usually have things like cucumber and butter, or egg and cress, or smoked salmon and cream cheese inside. But no fingers, don’t worry!”

  “And you have them for afternoon tea?”

  “Well, yes, traditionally these foods were eaten around four o’clock in the afternoon. But as you can see from the menu, we offer them all day now. People don’t just have ‘tea’ in the afternoons now, anyway—morning tea is also very popular. That’s usually around ten-thirty, eleven o’clock. In fact, some people call it ‘elevenses’. It’s when people usually stop work and have a little break between breakfast and lunch.”

  “It is delightful tradition! But I think I will let madam order for me,” said Professor Obruchev, making a little bow towards my mother. “I cannot choose! It is all delicious, I think. You know, we in Russia—we also love the tea and we have many cakes and biscuits, also.”

  “You make your tea slightly differently, don’t you?” I said. “In a samovar?”

  He beamed at me. “Yes! That is right—in samovar; this is metal container which boils water for tea. We have ones of bronze and copper, with beautiful engravings—they are antiques, yes! The samovar—it is very important because, you see, we make our tea in different way. We have two steps: first we make tea with dry leaves in small teapot, then each person will take some of this into a cup and add hot water to dilute for his satisfaction.”

  “That’s actually a very good idea,” I said. “That way everyone can get their tea to the strength they like and you never have to worry about it being too strong or too weak.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! That is exactly so! But now, I am delighted to try this English way of tea.”

  “It’s a shame you didn’t arrive a few days earlier, Professor Obruchev,” said my mother. “Otherwise you could have taken part in another old English tradition: celebrating May morning.”

  “Ah! I have heard this—it is great event in Oxford every year, is it not? But there was a problem this year, no?” asked the elderly Russian professor, frowning. “They speak about it at my hotel. The death of student… the accident from bridge?”

  “Not an accident,” my father spoke up. “It was murder.”

  “Murder?” The professor stared at him. “O bozhe! Really? But why? Who would want to do this?”

  “The newspapers have put forth several theories,” said my father. “The police are conducting an investigation and they do have several suspects. The roommate of the victim… his scout at the college…”

  “And his girlfriend,” said my mother. “Although I saw a photograph of her in one of the papers and, I must say, I just can’t believe that she could be a murderer! Such a pretty girl! And she comes from a very good family too: daughter of the Russian billionaire, Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov, I believe, and—”

  “Excuse me,” Professor Obruchev interrupted her. “Did you say Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov? But I know him! We were at same university. He is younger than me, you understand, but we were doing graduate studies together and we spend much time, drinking, talking in student bars.”

  “I didn’t realise you were friends with Mr Koskov,” said my mother, looking impressed.

  The professor made a self-deprecating gesture. “Ah, perhaps not friends like you think. We are not in same social circle, me and Vladimir. He goes in very different direction, since time of our student days, and he is very important man now. But yes, we keep in touch still and from time to time, when he needs to talk and somebody to listen, he comes to me and we go drink together again.”

  “Have you met his daughter?” I asked.

  “Little Tatiana? Yes, many times. I watch her grow up. She is beautiful, like her mother. Yulia was one of top models in Russia, but—Oy—she die young. She had cancer in breast.” Professor Obruchev shook his head sadly.

  “Has Mr Koskov married again?” asked my mother.

  Professor Obruchev shook his head. “There are lady friends, of course, but they do not stay long. Vladimir—his heart was only with Yulia. Now, his heart is all in his business and in Tatiana. She is only child, you see, and she is his great treasure. Whatever she wants, she will have! There is nothing that her papa will not do for her.” He smiled. “Ah, but I did not realise that she comes to Oxford! Indeed, I have not spoken to Vladimir for long time—over one year ago now. But I am very happy to hear that Tatiana is here—she has brains, that one. Always very clever, even as little girl. She could always—how you say—turn her papa around her little finger?”

  “Twist him around her little finger,” my mother corrected. She laughed. “Tanya Koskov sounds like quite a young lady.”

  The professor nodded eagerly. “Like her mama, she is. Ah, even same temper! She is tigress! One does not want to anger her; once, when she was younger and she was thinking of following mother’s footsteps, she went to audition for modelling. And there was another girl… and there was trouble… and little Tatiana—Oy!—she was very angry! She attacked other girl with knife!”

  I stared. “She attacked the other girl?”

  The professor shrugged. “It was with provocation, I think. Other girl made unpleasant comments about Yulia, Tatiana’s mama… so Tatiana took knife from cheeseboard and she stabbed girl.”

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed my mother. “What happened?”

  Professor Obruchev shrugged again. “The girl, they took to hospital—it was bad cut. But she did not lose her life. Her parents were angry but what can you do? It is Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov’s daughter. He gave them money and… they did not call police. After a while, it is forgotten.”

  “Well, I think that’s completely reprehensible!” said my mother disapprovingly.

  “Ah, but you do not realise what Vladimir will do for his Tatiana, how he will protect her…” The professor sighed. “It is unfortunate, perhaps. It has made her a printsessa—a princess, I think you say also in English. Always, Tatiana has her own way.”

  “Well, the British police certainly won’t be giving her special treatment,” said my mother firmly. “In this country, she will be treated just like everyone else!”

  “The rich are always treated differently, my dear, no matter what the country,” said my father with gentle cynicism.

  Talk returned to the subject of afternoon tea and I finally left their table with an enormous order (in spite of his declaration to leave all the ordering in my mother’s hands, Professor Obruchev couldn’t resist adding several items himself from the menu). As I walked slowly back to the counter to put the order through, I mulled over what I had learned. So Tanya Koskov had a history of aggression and assault… Very interesting…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cassie glanced over as I joined her at the counter and her eyes bulged when she saw the order in my hands.

  “Bloody hell! Is that an order for a huge birthday party or something?”

  “No, just a huge appetite,” I said with a laugh. “It’s for my parents and their guest, a Russian professor who’s visiting Oxford.” I ind
icated the table by the window. “He’s never had a proper ‘English afternoon tea’ before and he wanted to try everything.”

  “Brilliant,” said Cassie. “All we need is a customer like him every morning and you’d make enough to take the rest of the day off!” She paused thoughtfully, then said, “You know what you ought to do, Gemma? Play up to the whole ‘English afternoon tea’ thing. I mean, tourists come here because they want the genuine experience, right? So you should offer them a set menu package: a full tea service with a variety of cakes and scones, and charge a price for the whole set. That way, you get a big order and the tourists love it too. I mean, half of them are always asking me what to order from the menu. They’re unfamiliar with a lot of British baking and confused about the differences between a Bakewell tart and a Bakewell pudding, or how our muffins aren’t really muffins at all—or what they think of as cupcakes—but a type of flat, round, toasted bread… I’m sure they’d love it if somebody just ordered a selection for them and matched the tea as well. You could even create different sets—like a ‘Cream Tea’ menu of just scones with jam and clotted cream, or a ‘Savoury & Sweet’ menu, which could include some finger sandwiches, as well as cakes and buns…”

  I felt a smile coming to my face as I listened to Cassie’s suggestions. “That’s a fantastic idea, Cass. You know, when I dropped off the catering order at that college, I was admiring the way the Steward had got all these lovely three-tier cake stands for the food—it made it seem so much more ‘special’ and gave it a sense of occasion, somehow.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean!” said Cassie, getting even more enthusiastic. “Play up the whole image of the English afternoon tea experience. It isn’t hard—it’s just a few props—but the tourists would love it and I’ll bet you could charge a premium for those packages too.”