Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) (12 page)

Just as the fifth slide depicting a field appeared on the giant screen, the door to the auditorium banged open. I looked round, as did almost everyone else, to see Cordi shouldering her way inside, balancing two coffees and a bag of, no doubt delicious, baked goods.

She tottered down the aisle and then along the row, apologizing as she went along to the disgruntled-looking academics until she reached our seats.
 

Kessingworth gave her a look that could politely be described as ‘frosty’ before continuing. Cordi either didn’t care or notice the disturbance she’d caused.

She handed me a cup of coffee. “The queue in the café was abominable. Honestly, people should make up their minds before reaching the counter.” She took a sip of her drink and noisily got a muffin out of the paper bag. “Is choc-chip okay?”

I took my muffin. “Perfect.”

“Have I missed anything interesting?”

“That depends if you find lots of names and dates and pictures of fields interesting.”

“No, not really, dear.”
 

As if we hadn’t made enough of a stir, just then Cordi’s phone rang. The slightly muffled voice of Frank Sinatra singing ‘New York, New York’ escaped from her overlarge handbag. As she rummaged through her purse, trying to find the phone, she accidentally spilled her coffee in the lap of the old gent sitting beside her.
 

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed and stood up, desperately wiping at his steaming crotch. I slid down in my seat, trying to pretend I wasn’t there. This wasn’t turning out as slick as I had hoped it would. Jana stared at us, as did everyone. Just another incident to add to the growing list!

***

Another hour and a half flew by like concrete through a sieve. It wasn’t the most boring two hours I’d ever spent, but it was close. When the lecture was over, I stretched my limbs and made my way down to the front, through the massed ranks of corduroy-clad professors.

I managed to catch up with Professor Kessingworth just before she disappeared through a side door. “Lady Jana?” I called. She turned and looked at me over the rim of her glasses.

“I’m afraid I’m not giving any interviews, good day.”

“Wait,” I called after her before she disappeared through the side door. “I don’t want an interview, well, not as such. I want to talk to you about Henry Renholm.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked around to see if anyone had heard me. “What do you want?”

“I told you, I want to ask a few questions.”

She looked at her watch. “Fine. I’ve got to drop some things in reception. Go to my office, wait for me there. It’s on the second floor. Tell my secretary that I sent you.” With that, she left. I caught up with Cordi, who, unsurprisingly, was on the phone to Michael and avoiding eye contact with the gentleman whose trousers she had ruined with an impromptu coffee bath.
 

***

Jana Kessingworth’s office was pretty much what you’d expect an academic’s office to look like. It was clad in dark wood panelling and green leather upholstery. Tribal masks hung on the walls that weren’t covered in bookshelves that were groaning under the weight of hundreds of books and antique ‘stuff’.

While we were waiting, I had a poke around, but I didn’t find anything obviously linking her to Renholm or any books on how to murder your ex. I did find an old helmet sitting on a shelf. Bored, I picked it up and put it on.

“Hey, Cordi, what do you think, does it suit me?”

“Well, you are into heavy metal, so I suppose it’s appropriate.”

Just then the door opened and Kessingworth waltzed in. “I see you’re entertaining yourself. That helmet is a valuable antique.”

“Is it? Looks like an old cooking pot.”

She smiled at me. “Funny you should say that. In 1567 Chief Angus McTaggart, a Scottish warlord, had his head cut off and boiled in his own helmet… that helmet, to be precise.

“Yuck!” I said and took it off immediately. “I hope it’s been cleaned since then.”

“I do believe for many years it was used as a chamber pot.”

“You’re kidding me! That’s disgusting,” I said.

She shrugged, took the helmet from me, and put it back on the shelf. “So, what do you want?”

My flesh was crawling at the thought of old McTaggart’s head being boiled in that helmet, let alone anything else. “A disinfectant shower.”

She snorted. “What do you want with
me
? You mentioned Henry Renholm.” She sat down at her desk and hit the intercom. “Hold all calls, Rosie.” She sat back, looking at me with an appraising eye. “Who do you work for, the tabloids?”

“Good heavens no, Lady Jana, absolutely not,” Cordi said. “We’re from the Silvers Finders Agency. I’m Cordelia Silvers and this is my partner, Harley Hill.” Cordi handed her our card.

Kessingworth took it; a flash of recognition crossed her face. “I’ve heard of you, you were on the television. So what do you want with me?”

I came straight out with it. “We think Henry Renholm might have been murdered.”

She turned pale. “What? That… that’s ridiculous. Who would want to kill Henry?”

“Well, we were hoping you could tell us.” I sat on the edge of her desk. “After all, you dated him.”

“Yes,” Cordi said. “We were wondering if you knew anyone who might bear a grudge, or anyone who might have had a reason to kill Mr. Renholm.”

“I, I hardly knew him. We had a brief fling is all. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, you’ll have to go. I have a meeting.”

“Not so fast, your ladyship,” I said.
 

She looked nervous. I could tell she knew more than she was letting on. I got out the photograph of her and Renholm in the club, the one I’d taken from her sister, and showed it to her. She looked shocked.
 

“You look like you know him pretty well in this, or maybe you tripped and fell onto his knee after one too many glasses of champagne?”

She reached for the photograph, but I put it back in my jacket pocket before she could grab it. She glared at me. If looks could kill, I’d be a goner.

“Where did you get that?” she snapped.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s important, Lady Jana,” Cordi said, interrupting our little frosty stare competition. “The point is you clearly knew Mr. Renholm quite well.”

“Very well, it’s true, but Henry and I stopped seeing each other months ago. Like I said, it was just a fling.”

I folded my arms. “So, why did your sister go round to his place after he was found dead?”
 

“I… didn’t know that she had.” She looked away and was obviously lying.

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Really, Miss. Hill. Now, if that is all, I
really
have to get going. I have a busy schedule.” She got up and headed to the door.

I headed her off. “Yes, I’ll bet you do, what with a wedding to plan. Tell me, does your future husband know you dated a man who has just been found dead, possibly murdered? And how did you feel about Henry cheating on you? You must have been furious.”

She clenched her jaw. For a moment I thought she was going to slug me. “What are you implying, Miss. Hill?” she hissed.

“Me?” I shrugged. “Nothing. Although, if the newspapers found out about your relationship, I’m sure they’d start implying all kinds of things.”

“My fiancé knows everything about my life, as I do about his. I have nothing to hide from him or anyone else.” She went over to a cupboard and got out a bottle of scotch and a glass. She poured herself a stiffener and downed it in one before turning to us and said, “It was my sister’s idea to go over to Henry’s place after we heard he was dead. She wanted to take anything that could link him and me.” She shrugged. “It would be bad publicity, she said. I went along with it.”

“Why’s that?” Cordi asked, keeping Jana talking now that she was starting to realise that she had to open up.

“My sister can be very bossy.”

I snorted at that, not hiding my derision. “So why did you and Henry break up?”

“In short, Henry was a terrible flirt, but our relationship had just about run its course.”

“Do you know anyone who might want him dead?” Cordi asked.

“No. Henry was a fun guy. He also made amazing Pavlova. Although…”

“What?”

“Well, he had a few spats with Rex Farquar. He owns—”

“Farquar’s Emporium?” I said.

“Oh. You’ve heard of him?”

“It’s where you guys used to hang out and play dress-up, isn’t it?”

She huffed. “You make it sound like we were doing something wrong.”

“And were you?”

She gave a slow smile. “None of your bloody business. But Henry and Rex had a few arguments that I witnessed.”

Cordi and I exchanged a knowing look. This might be a lead. “Do you know what about?” Cordi asked eagerly.

“Rex is an irascible fellow at the best of times. He and Henry didn’t get on at all, especially after Henry won the Notting Hill Small Business of the Year Award for the second year in a row.”

“They fell out just because of the award?” Cordi asked. “Could there be anything else?”

She shrugged. “Farquar is a hot-headed, foul-tempered little man. If it wasn’t for the fact he runs a fantastic establishment, he wouldn’t have a single friend in the world, I’m sure.”

“Do you think he’s the kind of person who might kill someone out of jealousy?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. My area of expertise lies in dealing with people who have been dead for a very long time. All I can say is that there was no love lost between the two of them.” She picked up her bag. “Now, I’ve told you everything I know and I really need to go.”

With that she opened the door and waited for us to leave, making it quite clear we had gotten all we had out of the situation, but it was enough for us to go on. I felt like we were finally getting to the meat of the investigation.

***

Cordi and I made our way out of the museum and past the milling crowds of tourists filing into the various galleries.
 

“You know I’m a royalist, but honestly, Harley, I’m not sure I believe Lady Jana was telling us the whole of the truth.”

I had to laugh. “You don’t say?”
 

“She doesn’t strike me as a killer, though.”

“No, me either, but there’s definitely more to her story than she’s told us. One thing for certain, this Farquar guy certainly needs investigating.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t like the sound of him. Jealous types can be nasty.”

“Yeah. He certainly seems to have overreacted to Renholm winning the award. The more we find out, the more Renholm being done in seems feasible.”

Before we could continue our team talk, Cordi’s phone rang again. Apologising, she fished it out of her bag and answered it.
 

“Oh, hello, Aunty Maggie.” As she talked, Cordi paced back and forth. I made a point of not listening in, but I couldn’t help notice the serious look on her face. When she finished, she dropped the phone back into the bag of no return and came over.

“Is everything okay, Cordi? You look upset. What has Maggie done now?”

“Oh, nothing really, dear.” She bit her lip. “Now, please don’t get upset, but she told me to tell you that she’s found out some more information about your parents.”

I got that old familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Oh.”

“Yes, she said she’d like to meet us at her friend’s house later this evening.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. I felt pretty numb when it came to my parents.

She came over and squeezed my arm. “I know this must be hard for you, Harley, but perhaps you should find out everything you can about your family?”

“You’re right, I can’t pretend they don’t exist. Okay, let’s do it.”

I tried to sound more positive than I felt, but my guts churned with anxiety. Not just that it was about my parents, but that it was something Maggie had apparently found out, which, given her connections, made it seem like something I probably would prefer not knowing.

Chapter Fourteen

The address Maggie gave us was for a place in Notting Hill called Mortimer Square. Like much of London, the area was overshadowed by high-rise flats and swanky office blocks, but the house we pulled up outside was a quaint little cottage covered in ivy that must have been at least two hundred years old, judging by the architectural style.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked Cordi. I’d expected something with a little more glass and chrome.

Cordi got out her phone and checked her texts. “Yes, dear, this is definitely the address Maggie gave me.”

“Who are we going to see again, Hansel and Gretel?” I said as we got out of the car. The cottage was like something out of a fairy tale, if you ignored the skyscrapers looming behind it. The door was painted a delicate eggshell blue, and lace curtains hung at the four tiny windows, which were half hidden under a curtain of rambling ivy. I knocked on the door.

When it opened, I half expected a little old lady with a big grey bun on her head to answer. As it turned out, I was right. The door creaked open, and the smell of fresh baking and lavender wafted out. Standing there, wrapped in a lacy shawl with her hair coiled on top of her head, was a cute little grandma. Her eyes lit up when she saw us.

“Ah, Cordelia! I haven’t seen you in years. My, how you’ve grown, dear.” She gave Cordi a hug then turned her attention to me. She was wearing gold, wire-frame glasses perched on the end of her nose, but her eyes were as sharp as pins. “And this must be Harley. Come in, girls. Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

We went in through a tiny porch and into a delightful little kitchen.
 

An old black-leaded range stood in the fireplace. It was lit and the smell of delicious baking filled the air. On the table was a teapot, snug in its knitted cosy, and beside it were four cups and saucers, but what drew my attention was the cake stand that was stacked high with gorgeous-looking confections.

The woman poured three cups of tea. “Help yourselves to cakes, girls; then we’ll go through to the parlour.”
 

I didn’t want to be rude, as she was such a darling, but I didn’t know who the heck she was. “That’s very kind of you, Miss…?”