by H. Y. Hanna
Round and round the stories went, ending with a recent one—only a few weeks ago—about a scandal regarding nude photos of Tanya which had mysteriously appeared online and then disappeared again. I rolled my eyes. No doubt Papa Koskov had paid someone off again. I heaved a sigh of frustration and shut the browser down. Nothing of much interest there. I hadn’t really expected there to be—after all, I knew the police had far more sophisticated databases and resources they could search—but still, I was disappointed. I had been hoping that somehow I would spot a clue in the general media that the police might have missed.
By the time Cassie arrived to visit me that evening, I was nearly crying with boredom.
“I don’t care what Lincoln or my mother says, I’m going back to work tomorrow!” I said fiercely. “I can’t face the thought of another day like today, sitting here like a vegetable on the sofa.”
Cassie chuckled and handed me a cardboard box. I recognised it as similar to the boxes we used to pack takeaways for customers at the tearoom.
“Here,” she said. “To cheer you up a bit. Dora sends her love.”
I opened the box and my face lit up. “Cassie! You’re a star!”
Cassie smiled and went into the kitchen where she made us each a cup of tea while I climbed onto a stool at the kitchen counter and helped myself to the selection of goodies that she had brought. They were obviously leftovers from the day’s baking at the tearoom: a couple of scones, a wedge of blueberry and vanilla bean cheesecake, three lemon curd tarts, a few muffins, and a heavenly slice of banoffee pie. I pounced on the last and had eaten half of it before Cassie handed me a fork and a plate.
“Dora’s outdone herself today,” I said as I licked the fresh whipped cream off my fingers.
Cassie had placed two of the muffins into the sandwich toaster to warm them up and now watched as they turned golden brown. “Yeah, the muffins are particularly good. We had so many customers ask for them that Dora had to make a third batch. That’s why there’s some left.” She took the muffins out of the toaster and tossed one onto my plate, keeping the other for herself.
I cut the muffin in half horizontally and spread some fresh butter into the signature “nooks and crannies” of the interior, watching as it melted into a golden circle.
Cassie chuckled. “I had to do a lot of explaining, though, to American tourists who ordered ‘muffins’ from the menu and then couldn’t understand why they got a flat round of bread instead of something resembling a big cupcake!”
“Hey—not just any flat round of bread,” I protested. “A soft, chewy, delicious round of bread, toasted to brown perfection and topped with oozing butter…”
“Maybe we should re-name them ‘English muffins’ to avoid confusing the tourists?”
“Mmm…” I picked up my muffin and bit into it, savouring the wonderful combination of warm, moist interior and crispy toasted outer crust, all fragrant with melted butter. “I think if people taste this, they won’t care what we call it.”
Cassie laughed. “Gemma, you’re acting like you haven’t eaten any decent baking in weeks! You’ve only been away for a day.”
“It feels like a year. Anyway, how was it?” I swallowed the last mouthful of muffin and looked at my best friend anxiously. “Did it go okay today? Were there a lot of customers? Big tour groups? Did the new supply of tea leaves come in? What about that catering order for the village committee?”
Cassie grinned. “Relax, Gemma! Much as I hate to say it, we managed fine without you. In fact, I think the Old Biddies were secretly delighted that you were away because Mabel could rule the roost. You should have seen her: she was standing behind the counter, giving commands like a brigadier general, while we all meekly ran around obeying her orders…”
Cassie rambled on and I let her talk, smiling contentedly. There was something soothing about listening to all the gossip of village life, from the scandal of Mrs Ellis putting her lacy knickers out to dry on her washing line to the tragedy of Mr Peters discovering that his prize roses had been infected by aphids… I hadn’t realised how much I’d miss it, even just being away for a day. Although I didn’t live in Meadowford, I spent so much time there at work, and so many local residents came into my tearoom, that I felt like I was very much part of the community there.
“So, what about you?” said Cassie at last. “What have you been doing all day, aside from watching reruns of Neighbours?”
I made a face. “Feeling sorry for myself, mostly. My mother was fussing over me all morning, which drove me a bit bonkers. Thank goodness she was meeting friends for lunch and she’s been out all afternoon—in fact, she still hasn’t come back yet. Probably out shopping in Oxford somewhere. And… and Devlin hasn’t called,” I added in a small voice.
Cassie looked surprised. “What—you mean Devlin hasn’t spoken to you since yesterday?”
I shook my head. “I sent him a text after we got back from the hospital to let him know what had happened but I haven’t heard from him since. Oh, there was a missed call from him last night—I went to bed early and I must not have heard my phone. But I thought he’d call again today…”
“Well, I’m sure there’s some explanation,” said Cassie. “It’s not like Devlin.”
“I don’t know—he’s been acting so weird lately…” I trailed off.
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Not this again! I thought you said it was all sorted—that you were just being paranoid—”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought… But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, just… a couple of things have come up…” I said evasively, not really wanting to repeat the story about Lincoln seeing Devlin at the hospital with the mysterious blonde. It sounded so clichéd and sordid.
Cassie gave me a look. “You know, you don’t have to wait for him to call. You could just ring him.”
I raised my chin. “If Devlin’s not interested in finding out how I am, I’m not going to beg for his attention. He knows where I am. He’s got my number. He can give me a ring—if he can be bothered.”
Cassie sighed. “Okay, listen, I’d better go. But I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and see how you are. Oh, and I’ll email some website design stuff over to you. Good chance for you to look through things while you’re still stuck at home.”
“What do you mean? I’m planning to be back at the tearoom tomorrow!”
Cassie gave me a severe look. “Don’t be stupid, Gemma. It won’t kill you to rest for another few days. You don’t want to twist your ankle again. I’ve heard that if you don’t let the ligaments heal properly, you’ll end up with all sorts of problems in the future.”
“I’ve got my crutches. I don’t see why I can’t come and—”
“How are you going to hobble around on your crutches and carry a heavy tray filled with tea and scones? You won’t be any good to us at the tearoom and you’ll just get in the way,” she said bluntly. “You’re much better staying home and resting that ankle. The faster it heals, the faster you’ll be back at work.”
I heaved an impatient sigh. “Oh, all right!”
***
Cassie left soon afterwards and I was just about to settle down and try to read a novel when my phone rang. I saw Devlin’s name on the screen. I snatched it up eagerly, then had to compose myself before I answered
“Gemma?”
“Oh, hi, Devlin.” My voice was decidedly cool.
“Gemma, are you all right? What happened yesterday? I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“Nice of you to finally call,” I said.
Devlin sounded puzzled. “What do you mean? I told your mother that I’d be tied up in meetings all day. We’ve had a team from Scotland Yard come to visit and I’ve been in an all-day conference with them. Didn’t she give you the message?”
“No,” I said, surprised and mollified. “She never told me you rang.”
“I didn’t just ring; I came to see you. Last night—but you’d
already gone to bed.”
“Oh, you did?” I said, softening even further.
“I saw your mother,” said Devlin, a note of reserve in his voice. “She told me that you were sleeping and not to be disturbed. So I left, but I asked her to let you know that I had come, and that I’d be stuck in a conference all day today but that I would call you as soon as I got out.”
“She never told me anything…” I said in a chastened voice, feeling suddenly bad for being angry at him. I also felt a flash of annoyance at my mother. Why hadn’t she told me?
“Anyway, how are you, Gemma? How’s the foot? Is it serious?”
“No, it’s just a sprained ankle. But I have to stay off it for a few days.”
“Well, can you stay off it while sitting in my car?” said Devlin with a smile in his voice. “It’s only six now. We’ve got a couple of hours of light still. The only good thing about this conference today is that I’m getting off early so I intend to make the most of it. Fancy going for a drive?”
I felt a rush of happiness. “I’d love to. I’m going a bit crazy sitting here in the house.”
“Great—I’ll be over in twenty minutes. See you then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Twenty minutes later, I was settling into the front passenger seat of Devlin’s Jaguar while he gently tucked a rug around my legs. Then he got into the driver’s seat and we slid smoothly away from my parents’ house.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see… it’s a surprise,” said Devlin, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
I gazed out of the window curiously as we drove through the streets of central Oxford and then turned into the High Street and cruised down towards Magdalen Bridge. I looked at Devlin quizzically. Surely he wasn’t taking me to the site of the murder? Then understanding dawned as we turned off the High Street at the bottom, just before the bridge, and into the small car park in front of the Oxford University Botanic Garden, which sat across the street from Magdalen Tower.
Devlin killed the engine and jerked his head towards the back seat. “Fancy a picnic?”
I turned aroun
d and realised that there was a large wicker picnic hamper and a couple of folded blankets on the back seat.
“Oh!” I said, smiling with delight and anticipation. “What a brilliant idea!”
It was slow going but, with the help of my crutches, I made my way through the arched main gateway of the Botanic Garden, past the Conservatory and the luxuriant beds of the Walled Garden, to the open grassy bank beside the river. I looked around with a sigh of pleasure.
I used to love coming here as a student but I hadn’t had a chance to visit since returning to Oxford. Not that I was much of a botanist, but it was always fascinating to walk around and see the huge variety of plants and trees and flowers, even if I didn’t understand half the Latin names (my favourites were the gigantic lily pads in the Tropical Lily House). As the oldest botanic garden in Great Britain, it had such a sense of history too; they say that J.R.R. Tolkien used to come and sit under his favourite tree here: an enormous Austrian pine, which was possibly the inspiration for the Ents, the walking, talking tree people of Middle Earth in his famous Lord of the Rings trilogy.
I sank gratefully down on the soft blanket that Devlin had spread out on the grass and leaned back on my hands, enjoying the balmy evening weather. Despite being cool and grey yesterday, today it felt very summery, with the warmth of the sun still lingering in the air. The River Cherwell flowed past in front of me, dark and serene, heading south towards Christ Church Meadow and then on to join the Thames. I glanced to the left, upriver, where a fleet of punts were moored next to the bank, just underneath Magdalen Bridge. It was where most tourists hired the long, wooden boats for cruising on the river; it was also—I remembered with a shiver—next to the spot where Tanya had rushed screaming that fateful morning and waded into the water to pull in Charlie’s lifeless body.
I turned hurriedly away and focused on the more pleasant prospect of the contents of the picnic hamper. Devlin was unpacking this now, laying out the plates and cutlery which had been strapped to the underside of the lid, and then lifting out an assortment of delectable picnic treats: gourmet oat crackers paired with vintage cheddar, creamy brie and dense, buttery Shropshire blue cheese, miniature pork pies still warm from the oven, caramelised onion chutney, a loaf of fresh bread, a lovely watercress and pomegranate salad, and even a couple of Scotch eggs, golden and crispy in their breadcrumb coating. For dessert, there was a huge bag of caramel popcorn, slices of rich, traditional fruitcake, and a bowl of fresh strawberries, luscious and red and gleaming.
“Where did you find such amazing strawberries?” I marvelled as I popped a juicy red fruit into my mouth. “I didn’t think the season had even started yet.”
“I’ve got my sources,” said Devlin with a grin as he reached into the basket again and pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
I raised my eyebrows. “What are we celebrating?”
“Nothing,” said Devlin as he popped the cork. “I just thought we deserved to treat ourselves a bit.” He filled my glass with sparkling liquid and handed it to me with a smile.
I sipped the golden champagne and looked out over the river again. It was so calm and peaceful here and I felt a sense of contentment settle over me. I also felt a sense of shame for doubting Devlin; it was so sweet of him to arrange this surprise, and he had been nothing but solicitous and tender since he had come to pick me up.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.
I gave a guilty start and peeked at Devlin from under my eyelashes. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin the romantic mood by confessing that I had been harbouring suspicions about him.
“I… um… I was just thinking about the May Day murder,” I said quickly. “I don’t suppose there have been any developments? I know you were in a conference all day.”
“Yes, there have been some developments, actually,” said Devlin. He glanced sideways at me. “I’m afraid Dora isn’t going to like this very much.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve had fresh evidence come to light—evidence which shows that Miriam Hopkins was in the vicinity of Magdalen Bridge on May morning.”
I sat upright. “Miriam? Are you certain?”
Devlin nodded. “She was seen on CCTV footage. I’ve been getting one of my detective constables to go through all the security footage collected from various stores on the High Street. It’s a long, tedious process, which most of the time doesn’t yield much, but this time he’s come up with a result: one of the shops at the very bottom of the High Street, just before Magdalen College and the tower, has got a security camera fixed above the front door with a good view of the street. And according to the time stamp on the video, Miriam Hopkins was walking along the pavement on the opposite side, heading towards the bridge, at 5:23 a.m. that morning.”
“But are you sure it’s her?”
“Yes, there’s no doubt. She’s wearing a raincoat with a distinctive Middle Eastern paisley pattern. In any case, you can see her face quite clearly. She was obviously heading for Magdalen Bridge at a time when she told us that she was nowhere near the place. I intend to question her again first thing tomorrow morning.” He leaned forwards slightly. “But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Gemma, that this doesn’t look good. The fact that she lied to the police already makes her look guilty, and combined with the other things stacked against her…”
I sighed and thought of Dora’s friend: that kind, careworn face, her gentle, motherly manner… Could I have been wrong about her? Could Miriam Hopkins really have been the murderer?
“I just can’t believe it…” I murmured. “It seems so out of character!”
“Well, what do you really know about her character?”
“Not much, that’s true,” I admitted. “But Dora does! They’ve been friends and colleagues for years.”
“But can you trust Dora’s judgement?”
“I—” I hesitated.
The honest answer was, I didn’t know. In fact, you could argue that I barely knew Dora that well myself. I had only met her earlier this year and she had only been working at the tearoom for a few months.
“I suppose not,” I said with a sigh. “I imagine that Dora would be fiercely loyal to her friends.
“Yes, and because of that, possibly blind to her friends’ faults,” said Devlin.
“Yeah… and I’m probably a bit biased myself. It just seems like there are so many people more likely to be the murderer. Oh! Speaking of which, I almost forgot! Has your sergeant mentioned a guy called Pete Morrow at the Oxford Krav Maga Club? You know, Charlie Foxton was a member there.”
“Hmm… not that I recall. Why?”
Quickly, I told him about my Krav Maga experience with the Old Biddies. I could see Devlin trying not to laugh as he listened to my account.
“It’s not that funny,” I said sourly.
“Aw, come on, Gemma, the whole thing is hilarious! The thought of these four little eighty-year-old grannies battering you to a pulp and sending you to hospital… and you were afraid to hurt them!” Devlin gave up and roared with laughter.
“Well, who would have known that they had such an aggressive streak in them?” I muttered. “And Ethel was the worst! She looks like a puff of wind could blow her away… and she was punching better than Rocky Balboa! Anyway,” I said, keen not to dwell on my humiliation, “the only good thing was that I had to sit out most of the class and I got chatting to some of the members there. Most of them were quite nice, but there was one chap called Pete—Pete Morrow—he had a real chip on his shoulder about Oxford university students. And apparently he’d lost a match to Charlie last week—lost very badly. It sounded like a big loss of face in front of the club and he’s still really bitter about it.”
