A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) by H.Y. Hanna Page A

it past Mike to inadvertently hurt someone badly in a fit of temper. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got killed by mistake when people lost their tempers and things got out of hand. Besides, who was to know what anyone was really capable of?
    I remembered Cassie telling me how Mike had become increasingly bitter in recent months, ever since he had lost his job at the car factory due to an American takeover of the company. He was the type who always needed to blame someone for his misfortunes, and in this case, a rich American conglomerate would have been the perfect scapegoat. It would have given him even more reason to feel wronged and victimised: the small man fighting an unfair battle against the powerful corporate giant.
    Yes, Mike Bailey could easily have been nursing a grievance. And with the way Washington was taunting him on Friday night, it would have hardly been surprising if Mike decided to get vengeance on a personal level, against one smug American.
    “Well, I heard that the American choked on a scone,” said another lady. “Fancy that!”
    “Yes, it must have happened sometime between seven-forty-five and eight-forty when Gemma discovered him,” Mabel said.
    “How on earth could you know that?” I blurted out. “I doubt the police have even had the post-mortem report yet.”
    “Because he called the hotel reception at seven forty-five asking for his bathroom lightbulb to be changed. Frances Moore’s niece works at the Cotswold’s Manor Hotel. She told Jane Addison—who told Judith Powell—who told me at church this morning.”
    I could see Justine looking at Mabel with a mixture of astonishment and wonderment. Personally, I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I was more surprised that Mabel hadn’t found out what brand toothpaste Washington used and what size shoes he wore. On second thoughts, she probably had.
    “I hear that the detective on the case is very good,” Dorothy spoke up. “Detective Inspector Devlin O’Connor. I recognised his name when they mentioned him on the news last night. There was a piece about him in the papers earlier this year; it was to do with a murder up North… Leeds, I think it was… and no one had been able to solve it for seventeen years. Well, he cracked it.”
    My mother gave me a sharp look. “Devlin O’Connor? Is that—?”
    “Yes,” I said evenly.
    She seemed about to say something else, then glanced around and thought better of it. I saw Mabel watching us shrewdly
    One of the other ladies spoke up. “You know, I remember reading that article too. And I seem to remember some scandal associated with that case—wasn’t there a rumour that he’d got involved with one of the suspects or something? A very attractive young lady. And they were questioning his impartiality in the investigation—although he did solve the case in the end and bring the murderer to justice…”
    “If it’s the Devlin O’Connor I’m thinking of, I’m not surprised,” said my mother, compressing her lips.
    I felt a flare of annoyance, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I felt any loyalty to Devlin.
    “Well, a good-looking lad like him—I shouldn’t wonder if he has a weakness for a pretty face,” Dorothy tittered.
    “Is there any man who doesn’t?” said another lady and everyone laughed politely.
    Mabel folded her arms. “Inspector O’Connor may be good but there will be things he doesn’t see because he’s not a real local. We know Oxford, we live here, we’re involved in the village communities, we know who to talk to… I think we have an advantage that the police will never have.”
    I looked at her in puzzlement. “Who’s ‘we’?”
    “Florence and Glenda and Ethel and me,” said Mabel, as if it should have been obvious. “We’ve decided we are going to conduct our own investigation.”
    I gaped at her. “Your own investigation?”
    “Yes! We’re not going to let the police arrest Glenda’s great-nephew when he’s innocent.