by H. Y. Hanna
She patted me on the shoulder. “You know Cassie’s temper. It’s that artistic temperament of hers.” She gave a weak chuckle. “Maybe you’d better let her cool down a bit, eh? Give it a few days. Once she’s calmed down, she might be more amenable to reason.”
I sighed and stepped back. “Okay, thanks, Mrs Jenkins. But can you please tell her that I’d really like to make amends and if she… if she feels like talking to me, to give me a ring? Anytime.”
“I will, Gemma. Take care of yourself.”
I walked back to my bicycle, feeling even more dejected than before. As I was about to get on again, however, I suddenly remembered something. I glanced at my watch and gasped. Oh heavens—Muesli! I was supposed to pick her up from the vet! I jumped on my bike and pedalled as fast as I could to North Oxford, hoping that the vet clinic wouldn’t close before I got there. As it turned out, the waiting room still held a few dogs and their owners when I ran into the reception.
“I’m here to pick up Muesli,” I said, panting slightly.
The girl behind the reception grinned. “Oh, Muesli! She’s such a little personality! Everyone’s in love with your cat.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll just go and grab her for you.”
She returned a few moments later with Muesli in her cat carrier. I saw the little cat’s tail go up when she saw me and she let out a loud “Meorrw!” in greeting.
“Hello, Muesli,” I said dryly. “Enjoyed your stay?”
Muesli kept up a running commentary as I paid the bill, then I carried her out of the clinic. Twilight had fallen and the streets were in darkness, the activated street lamps still not at their full strength yet. I had originally intended to cycle home with Muesli’s carrier balanced on my basket, but now, in the fading light, I changed my mind. Safer just to wheel the bicycle.
I placed the carrier as securely as I could in the basket—it didn’t quite fit but I managed to squeeze it in tilted at an angle—and then grasped the handlebars and began wheeling the bicycle down the pavement. It was only a short distance to my parents’ house anyway. We were almost there—just passing the corner with the Walthams’ residence—when Muesli surprised me by suddenly letting out a hiss and a menacing growl.
I stopped and looked at her in astonishment. She was staring into the darkness of the lane leading down the side of the Walthams’ house and all her fur was standing on end. Another growl erupted from her, accompanied by angry spitting. I followed the direction of her gaze, straining my eyes to see in the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing.
Muesli growled again and hissed, narrowing her eyes. She could obviously see with no problems at all in the dark and whatever she saw was not making her happy. I wondered if there was a dog down there setting her off. Then, as my eyes began to acclimatise to the dim light, I suddenly made out the shape of a man. He was skulking down the narrow lane, keeping his head down, but I recognised the set of his shoulders and that long, handsome profile.
It was Jon Kelsey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
What was Cassie’s boyfriend doing here in North Oxford? Wasn’t he supposed to be in Italy? Before I could react, he had hurried down to the end of the lane and disappeared around the corner, out of sight. A minute later, I heard the sound of an engine and then a car came around the corner and shot past. I caught a glimpse of the passengers—Jon was in the passenger seat and, next to him, I saw someone with long blonde hair in the driver’s seat. A woman.
I stood gaping after the car as its rear lights faded away into the distance, until a plaintive “Meorrw!” from Muesli reminded me where I was. Slowly, I resumed wheeling the bike, my mind in a turmoil. Could that really have been Jon? It had been dark and I couldn’t be a hundred percent certain. I was so sure I had recognised him but what if I had been wrong? And besides, what was he doing here? According to Cassie, he wasn’t coming back from Italy until tomorrow. Had he lied to Cassie? But why should he lie? And who was that woman?
My head was still spinning with questions as I finally let myself into the house. I paused in the hallway, wondering what I should do. I didn’t dare call Cassie to check about Jon—and in any case, she wasn’t speaking to me. I sighed. I would worry about it tomorrow morning, I decided. I didn’t want to let Jon Kelsey ruin my evening with Devlin.
My parents had gone out to dinner at some friends’ so I had the place to myself. I was relieved—it would be nice to prepare for my date without my mother breathing down my neck. I hadn’t been looking forward to facing her questions about my date with Devlin. I didn’t know if his makeover as a debonair CID detective had convinced her to rethink her opinion of him, but I knew that there was no way he could ever win in a comparison with Lincoln Green: eminent doctor, son of my mother’s closest friend, and “one of us”. Yeah, my mother was a bit of a snob.
I fed Muesli her dinner, then scooped her up and retreated upstairs. I had a quick shower, then had a girly discussion with my cat about what to wear.
“What do you think?” I said to Muesli, holding a red Lyra figure-hugging dress against my body.
“Meorrw!” said Muesli from where she was sitting in the midst of the pile of discarded clothes on the bed. She licked a paw and swiped it over her face, covering her eyes.
“Too blatant, huh?” I said, tossing the dress onto the pile to join the others.
I turned back to the wardrobe and pulled out a demure navy dress with a white peter pan collar. “How about this then?”
Muesli considered it, her green eyes serious, then she gave a big yawn, showing her sharp little white teeth.
“Yeah, you’re right—a bit boring,” I said, throwing the dress onto the pile too. I put my hands on my hips and sighed. There seemed to be nothing that was right for the image I wanted to achieve. The thing was—what image did I want to achieve? Did I have to worry about making a specific impression? Surely we were past the age now of being coy and playing games?
I turned back to my wardrobe and rifled through the racks again. Finally, after several more changes and feline fashion advice from Muesli, I settled on an elegant Karen Millen dress in midnight blue with long, sheer sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a short A-line skirt that showed off my legs without being too risqué.
I glanced at the clock worriedly. A quarter to eight. I had taken so long over deciding what to wear, I had barely left myself any time for hair and make-up. I rushed through the rest of my primping, going for smoky eyes in soft shades of charcoal and violet and a sheer plum lipstick for my lips. At least my hair didn’t need much work. After years of sporting long wavy tresses, I had chopped it all off just before I returned to England and my dark hair was now styled in an Audrey Hepburn-esque pixie bob. My mother hated it and complained about it constantly, but I thought it suited me much better. I wasn’t a big, tall person and all that hair just seemed to weigh me down. With my new haircut, my eyes seemed larger, my cheekbones more prominent. I was just running a quick comb through my hair when I heard the doorbell ring downstairs.
“Wish me luck,” I said to Muesli, giving her a last pat on the head.
She purred sleepily, still curled up in the heap of clothing on the bed. I thought fleetingly of the hairs she would leave on my clothes, then I gave a resigned smile and turned away. I didn’t have the heart to move her. She looked too comfortable.
I’m turning into a typical cat owner—a complete slave to kitty’s whims, I thought to myself wryly as I descended the stairs and went to answer the front door.
“Hi,” I said softly, as I opened the door to see Devlin standing on the threshold.
His eyes darkened slightly as he looked at me and I felt a surge of pleasure at the admiration I saw in them. Suddenly I flashed back to eight years ago, when Devlin used to come pick me up from my parents’ sometimes for a university event or student party. He had looked very different then, of course. His hair had been long and swept back in a slightly leonine style that highlighted his high cheekbones and aquiline profile. But his steely blue eyes wer
e the same.
“Hi,” he said. “These are for you.”
I took the bouquet of long-stemmed roses he handed me. “They’re gorgeous!”
And they were. Not the common garish red roses that you see everywhere—no, these were like the roses from the old fairy tales, growing in enchanted forests and guarded by magic spells. Their colour was a deep blood red, their petals velvety soft and just unfurling.
“I remembered how much you love these,” said Devlin.
I buried my nose in the fragrant blooms, not wanting to show him how touched I was that he had remembered. In our student days, Devlin had barely been able to afford one single long-stemmed rose, but it was something he had done each year for my birthday. I used to press them carefully between the pages of my textbooks, turning them into precious faded keepsakes. But when things had gone wrong and I was packing for Australia, I had tossed them all out in a fit of anger. Now I regretted it and wished I had saved them.
“Thank you. Do you want to come in for a moment? I’ll just put them in water.”
Devlin stepped into the foyer, instantly dominating the place with his tall frame. I moved back, suddenly conscious of how close he was to me.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said again, blushing. I wanted to say something witty in reply but my mind was blank. I seemed to have turned into a stupid, tongue-tied schoolgirl.
“You had a dress similar to this in college,” said Devlin suddenly. “You used to wear it to Formal Hall.”
He was right. Again, I was incredibly touched that he remembered all these little details.
He smiled, his blue eyes whimsical. “In fact, for a moment there when you opened the door, it was almost like seeing you back in college again.”
I laughed self-consciously, putting a hand up to my head. “Except for the hair. I had long hair then.”
His gaze followed my hand. “Yes, you’re right—but I like your new hair. It suits you, brings out your gamine charm.”
I felt my face flushing even redder. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “Um… Would you like to sit down while I put these in water?”
“No, I’ll wait here. We’d better get going. I’ve booked the table at the restaurant for eight-fifteen.”
I nodded and was about to turn away when Devlin’s phone rang. He frowned and slipped a hand into his pocket. Pulling out the phone, he glanced at the screen and his frown deepened.
He answered the call. “O’Connor.”
He listened for a moment and I saw his face change: my old college love being replaced by the cold, hard investigator. Even before he ended the call, I knew what was coming.
“Gemma… I’m really sorry…” His eyes were full of chagrin. “I’m going to have to cancel our date this evening.”
“What’s happened?” I asked.
Devlin’s face was grim. “That was my sergeant. There’s been another victim: Meg Fraser, the Walthams’ new maid, has just been rushed to hospital with suspected fatal poisoning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I slept very badly that night, tossing and turning and plagued by more nightmares. I woke up, bleary eyed, and felt like a zombie as I went through the motions of showering and getting dressed, feeding Muesli and taking her into the garden for her morning ablutions. For once, I decided to leave my bicycle at home and get a lift with my mother to Meadowford-on-Smythe, and we arrived at the tearoom slightly earlier than usual, which wasn’t a great idea as it gave me plenty of time to agonise over whether Cassie might come in after all.
She didn’t. The hands of the clock moved slowly around, and by the time they reached eleven-thirty, I had to accept that it was very unlikely that Cassie was going to turn up. I felt another wave of despair. I had been hoping that, after a good night’s sleep, she might have calmed down and been willing to mend fences. She had never stayed angry at me for long before—she was always the first to phone in the morning, wanting to make up. This time, however, there was an ominous silence.
I thought of my possible sighting of Jon Kelsey last night and wondered if I should ring Devlin to tell him. But what if I had got it wrong? Things were already so bad with Cassie now, I didn’t want to do anything to make them worse. And the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that perhaps I had made a mistake; that it hadn’t been Jon after all. Maybe I had seen what I wanted to see.
The Old Biddies had turned up bright and early again, ready to don their aprons. I felt bad letting them work without reimbursement, but when I mentioned the subject of payment, I was met with a dismissive wave and gruff refusal. I had to admit, I would have felt much guiltier if it hadn’t been obvious that they were enjoying themselves immensely. Suddenly, instead of having to go around the village, all the gossip was coming to them. I could see the Old Biddies starting to consider the tearoom their own little HQ in Meadowford, and to be honest, I didn’t mind. Their busybody manners seemed only to add to the charm of the tearoom—after all, nosy, chatty old ladies serving tea and giving (unasked for) advice was almost exactly what the tourists expected!
My phone rang just after lunch and I had a sudden hope that it might be Cassie, but it was Devlin.
“Gemma—I was just calling to say sorry again about last night.”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “It wasn’t your fault. How’s Meg Fraser?”
“She seems to be stable. Your friend, Lincoln Green, is the doctor looking after her, actually, and he says there’s a good chance she’ll pull through.”
“Was it nicotine?”
“Looks like it,” said Devlin grimly. “She had the right symptoms, and in fact, after I briefed Green on the case, he decided to take a punt and give her some atropine, the antidote for nicotine poisoning. It worked beautifully, which seems to confirm that we were right.”
I frowned. “Why do you think Meg was targeted? What’s her connection to Sarah?”
“That’s what I need to find out. But Green won’t let me question her at the moment.” Devlin made a sound of frustration. “Says she’s not up for it and won’t let me in the ICU.”
“What about Fiona?”
“She was released late last night. We didn’t have enough to hold her.” Devlin sounded even more frustrated.
I could understand his feelings. I asked, “So do you think that Fiona was also responsible for…?”
“Actually, no. I told her about the latest poisoning before releasing her and she seemed genuinely shocked. Of course, she could just be a very good actress, but I got the distinct impression that she didn’t even know of the Walthams’ maid until I mentioned Meg to her.”
“And if she was detained at the station most of yesterday, she wouldn’t have had a chance to see Meg and administer the poison, would she?”
“You’re right. But of course, she could have put something in the mail or left it somewhere the day before, for Meg to find later, and it wasn’t opened until yesterday… Anything’s possible… But I think that’s getting too convoluted. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.” Devlin paused. “Which means that perhaps Fiona isn’t the killer after all. It seems very unlikely that there would be two people responsible for two separate poisonings using the same kind of toxin—so it seems to suggest that the murderer is not Fiona and that he is still at large.”
My thoughts flew back to Jon Kelsey and that possible sighting of him next to the Walthams’ house. Should I tell Devlin about it? But I was feeling less and less sure now about recognising him and, although I knew it was stupid, I was still holding out in the vain hope that Cassie might call me any minute for a reconciliation. If I sent Devlin after Jon, I knew I’d be scuppering any chances of that. I felt torn. I desperately wanted to make up with my best friend—I was terrified that I had lost her forever—but what if I was holding back information that could be crucial to solving the murder?
“Gemma? Are you still there?”
I gave a start. “Ye
ah, sorry. Um… so, what are you going to do now?”
“Well, until I can speak to Meg, I’ll have to try and gather evidence from other avenues. I’ve spoken to Meg’s mother and Mrs Waltham and they both confirmed that she went straight home from work. The only thing she had to eat and drink all day were a sandwich she had made herself at home and some biscuits and a cup of tea at the Walthams’. The biscuits were from a supermarket packet that was freshly opened and the mug Meg had used was still in the dishwasher. It was unwashed, so we were able to test it and it came up clean: no traces of nicotine—or anything else unorthodox for that matter.”
“So it’s unlikely that she was poisoned at the Walthams’ place. What about after work?”
“Well, as I said, she went straight home. Had an early supper with her parents and they all had the same thing: fish fingers, mushy peas, and potatoes. Her mother prepared the meal herself and swore that no one else had been near the ingredients. In any case, both her parents were fine.”
“Maybe she went out somewhere after dinner?”
“No, according to her mother, Meg went straight to her room after supper and was there all evening. Her mother went up to ask Meg if she wanted a cup of tea and found her daughter in distress. Lucky she did. If they hadn’t found her until later, it might have been too late.”
I shuddered. It was frightening to think how easily there could have been another murder.
“It looks like she was at her computer, posting on Facebook, that sort of thing, until she started to feel unwell… We checked the times of her comments online this morning and they matched,” said Devlin. “What we really need to find out now is how Meg Fraser was poisoned. Same as with Sarah. We know both girls were poisoned with nicotine—but how? Once we know that, we’d be in a better position to work backwards and find the murderer. If only Green would let me speak to Meg….” He cursed beneath his breath. “Anyway, I’ll keep you updated.”
Devlin’s phone call left me feeling worried and agitated. I found it impossible to concentrate on the tearoom. All I could think about was Cassie and Jon and the mystery. I served scones with jam and mustard instead of clotted cream, forgot to add tea leaves to a teapot, delivered a plate of Yorkshire roast ham sandwiches to a table of vegetarians, and left a plate of apple crumble and vanilla ice-cream forgotten on the sideboard until the ice cream had turned into a puddle. Thankfully the customers were all very understanding but I could see the Old Biddies eyeing me in exasperation.
