by H. Y. Hanna
“Yes, well… Maybe I’ve changed my mind after eight years.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually admitting that I might have been right after all?” A hint of a smile showed at the corners of his lips.
“I’m not admitting anything. I’m just saying that your approach might have some merit sometimes. Anyway, why are we wasting time debating this? I can see that you’re busy—I’ll let you get on…” I tried to brush past him and continue down the staircase.
“Not so fast.” Devlin reached out and caught my wrist.
The touch of his fingers on my skin sent a jolt of awareness through me and I sucked a breath in. Had he felt it too? I hovered on the step, staring up into his eyes, then I jerked my wrist out of his grasp and moved one step farther down the staircase, putting more distance between us. This time, Devlin didn’t try to restrain me.
“Look, Gemma…” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, causing a dark lock to fall rakishly over his eyes.
It reminded me of the way he used to wear his hair during our student days and how often I had reached up and brushed that wayward lock back across his forehead. I clench my hands into fists at my side and forced my eyes away.
“I know it’s natural to be curious but you have to leave well alone,” said Devlin. “This is a murder investigation. I can’t have you going around asking questions and possibly interfering with witnesses.”
“How would I be interfering with them?” I said indignantly.
“You could be asking leading questions. And then when the police do come round to speak to them, they might have ideas put into their heads by you.”
“I was simply asking a few innocent questions about Sarah and Fiona. I didn’t mention anything that the public couldn’t have known through the evening news or other official channels. I was very careful about that.”
Devlin made a noise of exasperation. “Since when have you become so interested in being an amateur sleuth? I mean, it’s bad enough with Mabel Cooke and her cronies running around thinking they’re Miss Marple clones, without you joining the game as well! Why can’t you just leave it to the professionals? You know you’re never going to have the police’s resources and authority so you’re never going to have the advantage needed to crack the mystery.”
“I didn’t do too badly with the last case,” I pointed out. “In case you’d forgotten, I was the one who made most of the connections and exposed the fake alibis and the real identity of the killer.”
Devlin hesitated, then inclined his head, conceding my point. “Fine. You’re right, you were very helpful last time and I have to credit you with solving most of the mystery—but a lot of that might have been beginner’s luck. It doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly Sherlock Holmes!”
I gave him a scornful look. “You keep going on about the advantages of official clout and resources but there’s something to be said for simple intuition and deduction. I know the University—I’ve been a part of it—and I have an insider’s advantage. And people talk to me.”
“People?” Devlin glanced at the studios around us, then back at me. “What have they been saying?”
I raised my chin. “Why should I tell you since you’ve got so much ‘official clout’ that you can find out for yourself anyway?”
He considered me for a moment, then sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. “Fine. Tell me what you found out and I won’t charge you for obstructing the investigation.”
“Oh no,” I said, folding my arms. “I’m perfectly happy to share information with you, but only as an exchange. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I stopped and blushed as I realised how those words sounded.
Devlin quirked an eyebrow, looking amused. “That sounds like an exchange I could enjoy…”
I scowled. “You knew what I meant.”
He laughed suddenly, a deep, rich sound. “I see you’re as stubborn as ever too…” He blew the breath out between his teeth. “Okay, deal. But let’s get out of here. Fancy some lunch?”
I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly lunchtime. I also realised that my stomach was growling faintly.
“All right.” I preceded him down the stairs.
We stepped back out onto High Street. It was a chilly winter’s day, with the weak sunshine trying its best to push through a bank of grey clouds. A sharp wind whipped down the length of High Street. I shivered and pulled the collar of my duffel coat up around my neck. Devlin had no coat, though the fine cashmere wool of his charcoal grey suit probably gave him ample protection. The wind ruffled his dark hair and he narrowed his eyes slightly against the onslaught but he didn’t seem bothered by the cold. His Celtic roots probably gave him a hardier disposition, I thought wryly.
“How about the Turf Tavern?” said Devlin, gesturing across the street.
I nodded and followed him across High Street and into Radcliffe Square, past the Radcliffe Camera and other buildings of the Bodleian library, past Hertford College and its iconic “Bridge of Sighs”, and then down a narrow, winding alley called St Helen’s Passage (although I liked the original name of “Hell’s Passage” better) which ended in a tiny courtyard in the very heart of the University.
And here was the hidden gem known as the Turf Tavern. Usually only known by students and locals—and a few lucky tourists who had stumbled upon the secret—this historic pub was nestled inside a low-beamed 13th-century building and tucked away in the shadow of the old city walls. (Rumour had it that the Turf was built just outside the old city walls because of the illegal activities that the original patrons had engaged in.)
We ducked through the narrow doorway into the interior of the pub, with Devlin having to stoop beneath the low-slung roof. Inside, it was full of rustic atmosphere—exposed stone walls and timber framing, mullioned windows and dark wood furniture. An amazing range of beers and other drinks were being served from behind a bar the size of a phone booth. I found an empty table by the windows while Devlin went to get our drinks and food. It was too cold to sit outside today, even though the tourists were braving the courtyard for the sake of the picturesque beer garden setting.
I watched them idly through the window. It was funny to see them eagerly photographing the place. When I had been here as a student, I had taken the Turf for granted. It was just one of the many pubs that I visited with my friends. Now, having spent the past eight years living in a “young” country like Australia with its lack of historic architecture, I had a fresh appreciation for the quaint character and “olde world charm” of these aspects of England.
“Here,” said Devlin, setting a steaming mug down in front of me. “I thought you’d fancy a hot drink. And the pub grub is coming.”
I cupped my hands gratefully around the mug, feeling the heat seep into my cold fingers. Raising it to my lips, I inhaled the rich scent of cinnamon, citrus, and spices.
“It’s mulled wine!” I said in surprised delight.
Devlin took a seat opposite me, grinning. “Yeah, I remembered you used to like the stuff. You never drank anything alcoholic unless it was sickly sweet.”
I was touched that he had remembered. I took a sip of the sweet, spicy wine and felt it glide down my throat, warming me to my core.
“Did you enjoy the concert last night?” said Devlin suddenly.
“Yes, thank you,” I said primly.
“So Lincoln is a family friend…?” he said it casually but I could see the interest in his eyes.
“Yes, Lincoln’s mother, Helen, is my mother’s closest friend from childhood. We saw each other a fair bit as children growing up. Lincoln went off to Imperial College in London and did most of his training there. He’s just come back to Oxford and my mother thought it would be nice for us to get together…”
“Still doing everything your mother says, like a good little girl?”
I flushed angrily at his tone. “As it so happens, I like Lincoln. He’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation otherwise, no
matter how hard my mother had pushed.”
“Nice to know that you’ve grown a bit of backbone in eight years,” said Devlin caustically.
I took a deep breath, determined not to let him rile me. I knew that he had a lot to be bitter about. Eight years ago, Devlin had bared his heart and soul to me and asked me to marry him. I had been young and naive and unsure of myself—and I had caved in to pressure from friends and family, especially from my mother, who had viewed Devlin and his working-class background with horrified disapproval.
So I had said “No”—and Devlin had never forgiven me.
Not so much because I had rejected him, but because I hadn’t had faith in my own feelings. I think Devlin would have hated me less if I had said no because I genuinely hadn’t loved him, but as it was, he was furious with me for letting others decide my destiny and sway my decisions.
I could still remember that terrible day—that look of contempt and betrayal he had shot me before turning his heel and walking away. I had wanted to run after him, to ask him to come back, to give me another chance… but instead, I had stood there, numbly watching him walk out of my life. I had been too weak, too eager to please others, too scared to trust my own feelings. One of the reasons I had jumped at the offer of the graduate training programme in Sydney was to get away from the painful memories here in Oxford.
And now, eight years later, I was back. Devlin was back too. Where did we go from here?
I gave myself an internal shake. Nowhere. I had thought that maybe–especially after that last murder case—there might be a chance for us to try again. Devlin had seemed to hint that he still had feelings for me and I had to admit, deep down, that I still had feelings for him too. But in the weeks since, he hadn’t followed up on that hint, hadn’t called me once.
Okay, okay, I know this is the 21st century and I’m a liberated modern woman. Why did I have to wait for the man to call me first? Except that I did. I wanted him to make the first move. I suppose it was pride.
And maybe he felt the same way. I could hardly blame him—after what he had gone through eight years ago, it wasn’t surprising that Devlin didn’t want to be the first one to bare his feelings again.
So that brought us back to where we always seemed to end up: stalemate.
Across the table, Devlin cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Gemma—that was uncalled for,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what got into me. You have a perfect right to listen to who you like and do what you like with your life. It’s none of my business.”
I looked up into those intense blue eyes and wanted to tell him what was in my heart, but something kept me tongue-tied. Instead, I said lightly, “Never mind. It’s not important. We should focus on the murder.”
The shutters came down over Devlin’s eyes and his expression became remote, professional—the cool, resolute detective taking over.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got first,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I told Devlin about my visit to the Walthams’ house and my snooping around Sarah’s bedroom. Our food arrived just as I was finishing and my mouth watered at the aromas arising from the plates set down in front of us. Devlin had ordered “bangers and mash” for himself—British pork sausage with champ mash, beer-and-mustard gravy, and sweet potato crisps—and a traditional fish and chips for me: hand-battered cod with minted mushy peas, chunky tartare sauce, thick-cut chips, and apple cider vinegar.
We fell into a companionable silence—the case temporarily forgotten—as we munched the food. For a moment, it felt almost like the old student days when we had shared many a plate together at the various pubs around Oxford.
At last, I leaned back with a contented sigh. “Oh my God, I can’t eat another bite.”
“What—no pudding?” said Devlin with a smile.
“Oh… well, there’s always space for pudding,” I said with a chuckle.
I glanced at the Specials board near the bar counter. There seemed to be a choice of pear tart with salted caramel and hazel nuts, sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream ice-cream, or dipping doughnuts with Bramley apple sauce—as well as the eternal favourite: triple chocolate brownie. They all sounded delicious and I didn’t know which one to choose.
In the end, I went for the sticky toffee pudding—a traditional British dessert that I hadn’t had in a long time. It came warm, with a gorgeous treacle sauce drizzled on top, and the cake rich and moist. It was the ultimate comfort food on a cold winter’s day, and when I had licked the last bit of toffee sauce from my spoon, I felt like I could take on the whole world.
Devlin watched me in amusement. “Anyone would think that you’d never had dessert in your life before.”
“Not like this,” I said, giving the spoon another lick. “People might complain about British food but our desserts are incomparable!”
He laughed as he took a sip of his coffee, then his face sobered as he returned to the subject of the case. As far as Jon Kelsey was concerned, he told me, the story seemed to pan out. Devlin’s sergeant had done some checking around and it seemed that what Jon had said was true: Sarah had been a frequent visitor at his London gallery and there had been reports of some “nasty” scenes.
“Kelsey’s assistant was very coy,” said Devlin. “But of course, she would be. A top-notch gallery like that, they would want to maintain their image and it’s not good business PR to admit that a former customer was causing havoc. It’s embarrassing and they would want to sweep it under the carpet.”
“All this sort of tallies with what Mrs Waltham told me,” I said. “You know, about Sarah going down to London a lot. She said that she thought her stepdaughter had been having an affair with a London man and that maybe the man was married—because of the furtive way Sarah had been behaving.”
“That might have just been embarrassment and pride on Sarah’s part,” said Devlin. “After all, if Jon was rejecting her, she wouldn’t want to broadcast it around that she was chasing after him.”
“So you think the Jon Kelsey angle is a dead end?” I said.
“I’m reserving my judgement for the moment,” said Devlin with his customary caution.
I thought again of the conversation I had overheard in the gallery gardens on Saturday night:
“Are we going to do it tonight?”
“Relax… everything in good time.”
“I… I can’t bear the waiting. The suspense is killing me!”
“You knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on.”
I still hadn’t mentioned it to Devlin. Somehow—some remnant of loyalty to Cassie—had kept my mouth shut on the subject. Jon Kelsey was already a suspect and my account of the conversation would only turn the spotlight on him even more. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that—at least, not until I had had a chance to investigate him further myself. And maybe to speak to Cassie first about what I’d found out as well. She’d never forgive me if she thought I’d sicced the police on Jon.
“To be honest, other than the fact that Sarah died in his gallery and had a prior acquaintance with him, there are no strong reasons to suspect Jon of being the murderer. There may be another man involved that we don’t know about yet. We’re currently checking to see if Sarah might have had other boyfriends. But she didn’t seem to confide in many people and no one seems to have seen her with a man recently. In Oxford anyway.”
“And what about Fiona? What did the staff tell you at the Art School?”
“Not much. They were apparently both hard-working students… perhaps a bit too hard-working. Their tutor admitted to me that there was some academic rivalry between Sarah and Fiona but he brushed it off as healthy competition.”
“It didn’t sound that healthy to me,” I said and recounted what the Japanese girl had told me about the Art Scholar’s Award.
Devlin whistled. “That’s a lot more serious than I was led to believe by the staff.”
“Well, I imagine they wouldn�
��t want to make a big deal of it—you know, it doesn’t look good for the school to have students behaving like that.”
“It would certainly give Fiona motive…” Devlin mused.
“Would someone really kill another person just to get revenge for a lost scholarship?”
“I’ve seen people kill for less,” said Devlin grimly. “Bitterness and resentment can eat away inside you…”
“I suppose—of all the people at the party—Fiona had the most opportunity to poison Sarah’s tea.”
“Actually… there was no poison in the tea.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“I’ve had the preliminary report from the toxicologist. SOCO managed to collect the fragments of the shattered teacup and also some of the spilled tea. Both were tested and neither contained suspicious foreign substances.”
“But… but I thought you said Sarah was poisoned—”
“Oh, she was poisoned, all right—just not with the tea.”
“So the Old Biddies got it wrong,” I said. “They seemed so sure that they saw Fiona putting poison into the teacup.”
“Well, remember they didn’t actually say that. They simply said that they saw the two girls exchanging words and that Fiona would have had a good opportunity to put something into Sarah’s drink. Which is true. But according to the tests, nothing was in the teacup except tea, milk, and sugar.”
“So does that mean Fiona is off the hook, then?”
“Not necessarily. She could still have found other ways to introduce the poison…”
I frowned. “But where else could she have put the cyanide?”
“We’re not certain yet it’s cyanide,” Devlin reminded me. “The toxicology analysis hasn’t confirmed that yet. I’m hoping to have the full report from the toxicologist by tomorrow. But Fiona could have hidden the cyanide in any number of ways. Maybe she gave Sarah something to eat that the Old Biddies didn’t see, or maybe she put something on the rim of the cup… That’s been tested, of course, and it’s come up negative so far, but if only a thin layer was applied and Sarah drank from that section of the rim, then presumably her saliva might have washed all traces of the poison away… I don’t know—this is just me tossing ideas off the top of my head—but it’s just an example of how poison could have been administered without being in the tea itself.”
