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

by H. Y. Hanna

  I smiled weakly. Then I heard a startled cry and turned quickly, my eyes widening with horror. Muesli had finally decided on the one person she was happy to settle down on—the only problem was, the person she had chosen was a large elderly gentleman and the place she had chosen to curl up was on top of his bald head!

  I ran across the room, gasping, “Oh! My God, I’m so sorry! I—”

  “No, no, it’s all right. Leave her,” said the elderly gentleman, his voice muffled from behind Muesli’s fluffy tail, which was hanging down over his face. He looked like he was wearing a bizarre Russian ushanka fur cap. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  His faded blue eye twinkled at me. “I like cats. She seems to be comfortable.”

  Yeah, Muesli certainly seemed to be comfortable. She perched happily on top of the gentleman’s bald head for the next ten minutes while I sat next to him in mortification and tried to make conversation. The other residents were delighted, pointing and giggling at him, and several got up to hover around the armchair and fuss over Muesli on his head.

  The elderly gentleman gave me a wink. “Haven’t had this much attention from the ladies in years,” he said with a chuckle. “I think I shall have to hire your cat as my headpiece on a regular basis.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I really am very sorry. She is just so naughty.”

  “Ah, but the naughty ones always have the most personality,” he said with a smile.

  Finally, Muesli deigned to come down off the man’s head and make herself comfortable on his lap. He stroked her and chatted to her for a few moments, then I managed to get hold of her and snap her leash back onto her halter. I had expected the nursing home to cut short our visit and hustle us out after that disastrous episode but, to my surprise, when I turned around, I found the Matron standing next to me, smiling.

  “Everyone in the Home is talking about Muesli now and some of the residents who are still in their rooms are desperate to meet her. Would you mind taking her around to visit some of them?”

  “Uh… sure, of course,” I said, dumbfounded.

  With Jane giving me a wave and a smile of encouragement, I left her and her Ragdoll entertaining the residents in the lounge and followed the Matron to the lift. We went into several different rooms on each level and I was relieved that, on the whole, Muesli behaved herself.

  The last room we visited was on the top floor and belonged to an elderly man with a military bearing who held himself very erect, despite needing a cane to walk. He patted Muesli perfunctorily but I quickly realised that he wasn’t that interested in cats—he was just keen to have company and someone to talk to. I listened politely as he told me about his career in the British Royal Navy and dutifully admired the tiny model ships encased in glass bottles that were displayed along his windowsill.

  “You’ve got a fantastic view from here, Captain Thomas,” I commented, looking out through the window. His room was one that faced the river and had a view of the famous Oxford skyline, with Magdalen College and its great bell tower in the forefront. In fact, they looked so close, I wondered if one could hear the choir singing from here on May mornings.

  As if reading my thoughts, Captain Thomas said, “Yes, I asked for a top-floor room. Like to be up where I can see things—keep an eye out for what’s going on. Got a great view a few days ago of the May morning hoo-ha.”

  I glanced down again and suddenly noticed something at the far end of the windowsill, tucked behind the curtains. A pair of binoculars. Something jogged in my memory: that morning—the morning after the murder—when I had gone for an early walk and come to Magdalen Bridge, I had seen what looked like a strange winking, flashing light from one of the windows on a building on this side of the river. Now I suddenly realised what that was. Not a flashing light, but sunlight reflecting off glass—like the lens on a pair of binoculars.

  “Do you often use your binoculars to look out, Captain Thomas?” I asked, reaching over to pick them up.

  The old man gave a start and looked slightly shifty. “Ah! Er… yes, those are for birdwatching. Bit of a hobby of mine, you know… there are many interesting species of… um… ducks and… and birds down by the river.”

  I turned away, hiding a smile. Birdwatching my foot! as Mabel would say. The captain was obviously a nosy old fellow who enjoyed using the binoculars to spy on the pedestrians in the streets below. In fact, from this angle, he could see clearly across Magdalen Bridge, past Magdalen Tower, and halfway up the High Street into Oxford city itself. He’d be able to amuse himself watching the tourists, students, and local residents going about their daily business. For an elderly person who was alone a lot of the time, it was probably a very good hobby.

  And maybe even a very helpful one, I thought suddenly.

  “Did you happen to use your binoculars on May morning?” I asked casually. “You know, when the choir was singing?”

  “Always watch it every year,” he said.

  I turned eagerly. “So you saw the boy go off the bridge?”

  “Saw the whole thing. Not the first time that sort of thing’s happened, of course—silly buggers are always at it every year, despite all the police warnings about how shallow the river is. Students have no sense! Of course, they’re usually fine—although there were several bad injuries a few years ago. Ambulances there for hours afterwards. But I have to say, I’d never seen one go down like this year. Gave me a bit of a shock when I saw the body float up like that. The stupid boy must have hit his head on the side of the bridge going down or something. Poor chap. Nasty accident…” He shook his head.

  I stared at him. “It wasn’t an accident, Captain Thomas. In fact, the police think it might have been murder.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Murder?”

  “Yes, it’s been in all the papers.”

  “Don’t read the papers,” he snapped. “Full of nonsense these days. Don’t print anything worth reading.”

  “Oh… well, the police are very keen to speak to anyone who might have information about the incident. I’m sure they’d be interested in what you saw.”

  He frowned. “Didn’t see anything like murder. Just saw the boy go off the side of the bridge.”

  “But right before that? Did you see anything—perhaps in the crowd—right before the boy went over?”

  He frowned even harder. “No, just the usual. People throwing things in the air and waving their arms and cheering. Lots of moving about, of course—people embracing and all that. Then I saw a body—the boy—lurching over the top of the balustrade, then rolling over and going into the water. And the crowd rushing to the side of the bridge after him. I thought at first that there would be more jumpers getting up on the balustrade, but then I saw the body floating and the crowd going quiet.”

  I shivered again at the memory that his words brought back. It had been an awful moment: that horrified, eerie stillness after all the cheering and elation.

  “And that’s all?” I asked. “Nothing else you noticed?”

  He shook his head. I tried to hide my disappointment. Oh well, it would have been too good to be true. It was only in books and movies that witnesses conveniently see the murderer when they look out the window.

  I gave him a smile. “Well, I’m sure the police would still like to speak to you. Would you mind if I—”

  “There was that odd bloke running away,” he said suddenly.

  “What do you mean?

  “Well, it was after the boy went over. I told you the crowd all rushed towards the side of the bridge—except that I noticed one chap going in the opposite direction. It caught my attention because I’ve got the view from above and I could see him pushing his way through the crowd, away from the side of the bridge, rather than towards it. I thought that was a bit odd because most people were rushing to see what had happened, whereas he was rushing away from it.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, had his back to me.”

  “How did you know it
was a man then?

  “Hmm… I suppose it could have been a woman. Wasn’t very tall. But I thought the way he moved—seemed like a man.”

  “What about hair colour?”

  “Oh, he was wearing one of those things that young people like to wear nowadays. A sort of cotton jumper with a hood.”

  “A hoodie? What colour was it?”

  “Dark grey, I think. Or a sort of faded black. It had some letters across the back.”

  “What letters?” I asked eagerly.

  He furrowed his brow in an effort to remember. “My memory isn’t what it used to be… Think it was O…E…M…C? Or maybe O…K…? It definitely had an O at the beginning and a C at the end.” He shrugged. “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

  I gave him an understanding smile. “That’s okay. I think that’s still really valuable information that the police would want. Would you be happy to speak to them?”

  His chest swelled with importance. “Naturally, naturally. Delighted to help.”

  “Great. I’ll let them know.” I turned around, suddenly remembering Muesli. She had been very quiet and now I realised why. She had curled up on Captain Thomas’s pillow and gone to sleep! It had been a big morning for the little tabby and even her boundless energy had run low. I went over and gently scooped her up. She was a warm, floppy bundle in my arms.

  “Me…orrw?” she said sleepily.

  “Come on, Muesli—time to go home, I think,” I said with a grin.

  I thanked Captain Thomas again, then returned to the ground floor with my sleepy cat. Jane was waiting for us in the reception with her Ragdoll already back in his cat carrier. She was chatting to the Matron and looked up with a smile as I stepped out of the lift.

  “I was just about to come and find you,” she said.

  “Sorry, I got a bit side-tracked chatting to one of the residents,” I said.

  “Poor Muesli—she looks worn out!” said the Matron, putting out a hand to stroke my little tabby as I placed her gently back into her carrier.

  I laughed. “Oh, I think it’s good for her. She really enjoyed herself this morning.”

  “And we’ve really enjoyed having her—no, I mean that,” said the Matron with a smile as she saw my expression. “She’s really livened up the place. I can’t tell you how much the residents have perked up. They’ll be talking about her antics for days, I’m sure! We’re all eagerly looking forward to her next visit.”

  “Oh… thank you,” I said, flushing with surprise and pleasure.

  A few of the residents had congregated in the reception area to say goodbye to the cats and finally, with a smile and wave, Muesli and I bade goodbye to her new fan club and left the nursing home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I cycled home and deposited Muesli in her favourite spot on the sagging old couch, then rang Devlin. His mobile was engaged, so I tried the CID office. His sergeant answered.

  “The guv’nor? He’s just gone out for lunch.”

  “For lunch? But I thought… He told me he was having a working lunch in the office today. Was it a last-minute thing?”

  “Dunno. Just told me that he was planning to go out for lunch. Had a meeting, he said.”

  “Something in connection with one of your cases?”

  “Maybe. He didn’t give any details. Plays his cards close to his chest sometimes, the inspector does.”

  Yes, he certainly does.

  “Um… Well, when he comes back, can you ask him to give me a ring? I’ve got some information for him, about the May Day murder case.”

  “You could speak to me,” the sergeant said importantly. “I’m interviewing a lot of the witnesses on that case, as the inspector’s so tied up with the Blackbird Leys homicide.”

  “I think I’d rather speak to Devlin directly. I’ll try him again on his mobile but, just in case, can you give him the message too?”

  “Yeah, sure. But it might be a while before he gets back—he only left about ten minutes ago.”

  I hung up and stood in my living room, undecided. It was ironic—Monday was the one day I had off each week and I usually looked forward to it with great anticipation. It was wonderful having a day where I could sleep in, laze around the house, catch up on chores and other things, curl up with a book, watch a movie… but today, the hours seemed to suddenly stretch in front of me, with no work or events to take my mind off things. Instead, I was struggling not to let my imagination run away with itself, conjuring up images of Devlin having secret assignations with leggy blondes…

  I heaved an exasperated sigh. This is ridiculous! I decided I would go out for lunch myself, and then maybe have a little wander through town, do some window-shopping. That would stop me sitting at home, brooding over Devlin’s whereabouts. I grabbed my coat and keys once more and left the cottage.

  As I turned onto the towpath by the river and began walking towards town, I felt a sense of delight again at having found such a great place to live. Oxford was probably one of the most expensive cities to live in the U.K.: it had easy access to London and a beautiful location near the Cotswolds, not to mention its own spectacular architecture, vibrant cultural scene and shopping. I had searched in vain for somewhere I could afford and I had almost given up hope—when I had found this cottage. It was perfect, situated at the south end of the city, in a secluded close on the banks of the River Thames. Yes, it was old and rundown, but the bones were solid and I knew it was perfect for me and Muesli.

  I had been expecting—given its brilliant central location—that the rent would be astronomical. But to my surprise, I found that the cottage had been sitting empty for so long that the owners were happy to accept a heavily discounted rent. It was almost as if it was meant to be, I thought with a smile as I walked slowly up St Aldate’s Street, heading towards Carfax, the main crossroads at the centre of Oxford.

  My steps faltered as I suddenly saw a man coming down the other side of St Aldate’s, towards me. It was Devlin! There was no mistaking his tall handsome figure. I started to raise a hand to wave and catch his attention, but then something stopped me. He was walking in a hurried manner, casting an occasional look over his shoulder, and I suddenly remembered his mysterious lunch appointment.

  Was he on his way to meet somebody?

  I ducked behind a tall red Royal Mail post box and watched Devlin as he continued past me on the other side of the street. He paused on the corner of a small winding lane that led off from St Aldate’s, gave a last quick look around, then ducked into the lane and disappeared. I hesitated for a second, then, with a hasty look both ways to make sure that no car was coming, I ran across the street and arrived at the mouth of the lane myself.

  I peered cautiously around the corner. Devlin was already quite a long way down the lane, walking at a brisk pace. I darted after him. The lane slowly widened into an open area with some shops on the left side, and then a series of wooden tables arranged beside an old building with whitewashed walls and black framed windows. I came around the curve and into the open area just in time to see Devlin’s tall figure disappear into the doorway of the old building.

  I recognised it: it was the Bear Inn, a thirteenth-century town pub and one of the oldest in Oxford. Tucked down this back lane, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, it was a bit of a hidden gem that most tourists didn’t know about. It hadn’t been one of my “regular” pubs as a student but I had come here a few times and I was familiar with the layout. My heart sank. The Bear Inn was charming partly because of its tiny, cosy interior, with the low ceilings and dark wood panelled walls of an old historic pub. If Devlin was standing by the bar, it would be practically impossible to enter the pub without being seen, and there would certainly be nowhere to hide.

  But luck was with me. As I was debating what to do, I saw Devlin step out again, carrying two pints of beer, and make his way to one of the wooden tables that made up the Bear Inn’s outdoor beer garden.

  I dropped quickly behind a low wall with an ornamental
hedge and held my breath. Had he seen me? I edged to the side of the wall and looked around. No, Devlin was sitting at one of the tables very close to me but his back was turned. He was facing the direction where the lane curved around the corner of the pub and I realised suddenly that he was waiting for someone—someone who would probably be coming down the lane from the other direction. I knew the lane continued and opened out onto Oriel Square, which in turn led to Merton Street and the accesses to Christ Church Meadow. Who could be coming from there? I wondered.

  I glanced quickly around. The wall I had crouched behind marked the boundary between the beer garden and the pavement in front of the shops. Behind me was a metal rack with several bicycles parked against it, and beyond that was another low wall. If someone came up the lane from the direction that Devlin was facing, they wouldn’t be able to see me, but if someone came from behind me—which was the direction that I had come from myself—then they would see me skulking here against the wall and wonder what I was doing.

  I peered back up the lane. I could see no one. Still, just in case, I hastily untied one shoe, then picked up the ends of the laces and held them poised in my hands. If anyone saw me now, hopefully it would look like they had happened upon me just as I was crouching down to tie my shoelaces.

  The sound of footsteps made me jerk my head up. Cautiously, I peered around the side of the low wall and looked towards the other end of the lane. A couple appeared around the corner, walking arm in arm, talking and laughing. They disappeared into the pub. Devlin turned his head slightly and I saw his face in profile. There was disappointment in his expression. He glanced at his watch.

  Then I heard footsteps again. High heels. A tall woman came around the corner, with loose brown hair and beautiful dark eyes. She was wearing tight jeans tucked into leather boots and a figure-hugging sweater. She smiled as she stepped into the beer garden, heading straight for Devlin.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN