Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) (9 page)

I stepped out onto the street and paused for a moment, then began walking purposefully towards “The High”, one of the main thoroughfares of Oxford. Once described as “one of the world’s most beautiful streets”, High Street formed a gentle curve from Carfax in the centre to Magdalen Bridge at the eastern edge of the city, and had been the subject of countless prints, photographs, and paintings. Looking down its length, it was still possible to imagine the elegant world of 18th-century England. It was home to many of the iconic landmark buildings of the University: All Souls College, The Queen’s College, the University Church of St Mary the Virgin with its famous spires, the Examination Schools… and the Art School.

I stopped outside the quiet, unassuming exterior of the Art School—a modest building compared to many of the other university departments but it seemed appropriate for the intimate, personal nature of the Fine Arts course. I had wondered if I might have trouble getting in but, to my surprise, the front doors were wide open and a stream of people were passing in and out. A sign by the door explained why: it was an Open Day.

I smiled. I remembered coming to an Open Day in my teens. And there were information visits at my school too. You wouldn’t think a university as famous as Oxford would need to market themselves but actually, they had a different problem: the stigma of being too exclusive and elitist. It wasn’t true anymore but lots of people still believed that you had to be a member of the English aristocracy or have attended one of the snooty public schools to get accepted (I always thought calling posh private schools “public school” was one of the prime examples of the British talent for understatement). Oh, you still had to work bloody hard to get in and Oxford only took the best, but it was based on your own efforts now and not who your great-great-grandparents were.

Anyway, right now, I was grateful for the University’s marketing efforts because it meant an easy, unobtrusive way for me to get in the Art School. Luckily, I’d dressed in an old pair of jeans and a faded jumper this morning. With my face scrubbed free of make-up and my hair in a ponytail, I just might pass for a student, as long as nobody looked too closely.

I found a large crowd just inside the entrance and I attached myself to the rear of the group, following them as they were led up the stairs by a guide who was giving a well-rehearsed spiel about the Fine Art department.

“…in addition, there is a world-class library housing over five thousand volumes on the subject of fine art, art history and theory, and human anatomy. Each student is allocated a primary tutor with whom they meet regularly throughout the term, and they are initially encouraged to work across all media before developing their own focus. Alongside the student’s individual studio work, they attend workshops designed to introduce a range of techniques, practical classes in drawing, and lectures and tutorials in art history…”

We’d arrived at one of the upper levels and I slipped quietly away into a large airy room that was obviously being used as a communal studio space. There were a few students working at various sculptures and easels around the room and I paused uncertainly. Now that I was here, I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. I guess I had had a hazy idea of speaking to someone about Sarah—or Fiona—and finding out more about the two girls that way… but who should I speak to? The logical choice would have been one of the tutors who had supervised the girls, but I wasn’t CID; I couldn’t just walk into one of the department offices, flash a badge, and start asking probing questions…

I looked around the studio again and my eye was drawn to a large canvas on an easel in the far corner. No one was working at it. I made my way over and stood looking at the painting speculatively. Even before I saw the flamboyant signature in the bottom right-hand corner, I guessed that it was Sarah Waltham’s work. I remembered seeing a painting in a similar style above the fireplace in the Walthams’ living room. Whatever I might have thought of her personality, I had to grudgingly admit that Sarah had talent. The strokes were bold and fresh, the colours vivid.

I looked around her workspace. It mirrored the clutter in her bedroom—a jumble of paintbrushes and paints, half-drunk mugs of tea, charcoal pencils, turpentine, open packets of crisps scattered around the easel, rough sketches loosely stacked in piles, oil rags smeared with paint… It was a miracle she managed to produce any work in this mess.

There was a pretty Asian girl hunched over a clay sculpture at the workspace next to Sarah’s. I drifted over and, when she looked up at my approach, I gave her my warmest smile and said, “That’s such a beautiful piece! Were you inspired by anything in particular?”

She looked surprised but obviously flattered by my interest. “This is just from the idea in my head,” she said with a shy smile, in a slightly accented voice.

“Wow, you must have a fantastic imagination!”

She flushed with pleasure. I felt slightly guilty for leading this sweet girl on, but hey, needs must. Like all artists, she loved talking about her work. I nodded and made enthusiastic noises as she began telling me about her childhood in Japan, her favourite artists, her big influences and sources of inspiration.

When I felt that I had lulled her into a false sense of security, I said casually, “By the way, I heard that there was a terrible tragedy recently—one of the art students got killed?”

She gave me a wary look. “Yes,” she said.

“Did you know the girl well?”

“No, I don’t know well… Why do you ask?”

“Er…” I cast my mind around for a reason. Then I remembered the Open Day and jumped on the first thing that came to mind. “Well, I’m considering applying here to study and I was wondering if it was really ‘safe’, you know. My mother’s a terrible worrier and she saw the news about the girl who died and now she doesn’t want me to apply here—”

“Oh no, no,” the girl rushed to reassure me. “It is very safe! The school is good. That girl—she was not killed here. She was at a party.”

“But wasn’t it anything to do with her work? The papers said that the party was in an art gallery so I wondered…”

The girl nodded solemnly. “Yes, the party is inside an art gallery in Oxford. But it is not a University art gallery, not for students. It is private gallery—for tourists only.”

I leaned forwards and lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Is it true that she was murdered? I heard something about poison.”

The girl nodded, wide-eyed. “I hear the same thing also,” she said in hushed tones.

I gave a mock shudder. “How scary! Who would do a thing like that? Did she have any enemies?”

The girl gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I don’t know her very well. Only we say hello sometimes.” She hesitated, as if debating whether to say it, then she added in a rush, “Sometimes, Sarah is not very nice. She makes other people angry.”

I’ll bet
, I thought dryly. Aloud, I said, “I think I heard that she had a particular problem with one of the other students here?”

“Oh, you mean Fiona.” The Japanese girl dropped her gaze. “Yes, she and Sarah—they don’t like each other. They have fight sometimes. Big fight.”

“
You
didn’t have trouble with Sarah?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled shyly. “I just keep quiet and do my own work. Maybe also, it is because I do the sculpture—this is not the same kind of art as Sarah. She didn’t like others to do the same as her. She liked to be special. I think that is why she did not like Fiona—they are both painting the same style and they are always comparing and comparing…”

“You mean they were always competing with each other?”

“Yes!” said the girl. “Yes, it is exactly like that. They each want to be the better one—but Sarah, especially. And then there was the terrible thing which happened for the Art Scholar’s Award.”

“The Art Scholar’s Award?”

The girl nodded. “It is a very special award, very—how you say—prestigious? They only give it to one person each year—for the best piece of student work. And Fiona—she wants very much to win. She told me the award money is very important to her. Her family is not rich and she has to work many jobs when she is studying and this award will make her life so much easier. But of course, Sarah wants to win also.”

“Surely Sarah didn’t need the money?” I said.

“No, she doesn’t,” said the Japanese girl, a dark expression coming over her pretty face. “She just likes to win. Always she wants to win. So she can be better than other people. But she is angry because she can see that actually Fiona’s painting is much better. We can all see that. We all know that Fiona is going to win.”

I had an inkling of what was coming. “What did Sarah do?”

“She said she did nothing! But we all know it is not true. We know that it must be her who destroyed Fiona’s painting.”

“Destroyed?”

The Japanese girl nodded soberly. “The night before they do the judging, somebody came to the Art School and cut Fiona’s painting. With a knife. On the canvas everywhere. Oh, it is terrible when I see it the next morning! Fiona was crying! Her beautiful painting and it is completely spoiled! The canvas is cut up like many ribbons.”

I had been expecting something like this but it was still shocking to hear. “That’s awful! Did they find out who did it?”

“No. Of course, we all know it was Sarah but we cannot say. And then when the judge announced the winner and Sarah got the award, she smiled in a funny way and said something rude to Fiona.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t know. I did not hear. But Fiona was very angry—like crazy angry. She started to do lots of shouting and she tried to hit Sarah… many people have to hold her to stop her. After that, the tutors asked me if I would change with Fiona. She used to have this position.” She indicated the space around her. “But they say it is better for her to work far away from Sarah.”

I digested this information. From the sound of things, Fiona had good reason to hate Sarah Waltham… but good enough to want to murder her? Surely people didn’t kill someone simply because of a lost award?

But the award wasn’t a small thing to Fiona Stanley. Unlike Sarah, who simply wanted it for the accolade and feeling of superiority, the money would have made a big difference to someone in Fiona’s situation. Besides, I could just imagine the bitter resentment the latter had felt at the sheer unfairness of Sarah getting away with sabotage.

“But don’t worry,” said the Japanese girl warmly. “It is not something that happens often. All the other students are very friendly and nobody fights. It is only Sarah and now she is…” She trailed off suddenly, flushing.

“When was the last time you saw Sarah?” I asked gently.

The other girl frowned. “I think it was Saturday. I was here working and she came and worked also.”

“Was this in the morning?”

“No, in the afternoon. Just after lunch. Actually, I think I see her have lunch here?” She nodded across at the cluttered mess around Sarah’s easel.

“Did she look okay? I mean, was she the same as normal?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Do you mean she had poison already?”

“No, no,” I said hastily, not wanting to start any more rumours. “I just wondered if maybe… well, if she was worried about something…”

The Japanese girl shook her head. “No, she looked the same.” She was eyeing me curiously now and I realised that my pointed questions were beginning to sound very strange for someone who was just concerned about student safety at the Art School!

“Well, I’d better not disturb you any longer,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me. I feel much better now that I know the whole story. I shall tell my mother that the school is really safe.”

“Yes.” The girl beamed at me. “Yes, it is a great place. Coming to Oxford is the best experience of my whole life!”

“I hope I’ll see your work in a gallery someday,” I said sincerely. “Good luck with the rest of your course.”

I made my way back across the studio, heading for the main staircase that would lead back down to the lower floors. But as I got there, I bumped into someone just coming up. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that it was Devlin.

“Gemma? What are you doing here?” Devlin’s brows drew together in a frown.

“I… um…” For a moment, I thought of lying, then I caught the steely glint in Devlin’s blue eyes and I knew that he wouldn’t take anything but the truth for an answer.

“I was doing a bit of investigating,” I confessed. “I… I was curious about Sarah Waltham and I’m not working today and I was in town so I thought—”

“You thought you’d come in here under false pretences and trick your way to getting some information?”

“I didn’t trick anyone!” I said hotly. Then I squirmed. “Okay, so maybe a little. But you’re the one who used to say that the ends justify the means.”

He regarded me silently for a moment. “Yes, I did used to say that. And if I remember rightly, you used to disagree vehemently with me.”

“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.