A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) by H.Y. Hanna Page B
Authors: H.Y. Hanna
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This isn’t a simple murder—there’s a mystery behind this and we’re going to find out what it is. After all, if Agatha could do it, so can we.”
“Who’s Agatha?” I said, really lost now.
Mabel looked at me impatiently. “Why, Agatha Christie, of course!”
“Er… But Mabel, you do realise that those are all just fictional stories? I mean, she made them up, so of course she knew who the killer was and how the murder was committed. She didn’t actually solve any real-life murders.”
Mabel waved this way as if it was a minor detail. “I’m sure the principles are the same, dear. When I get back to Meadowford-on-Smythe later, I’m going to speak to Inspector O’Connor myself.”
Heaven help Devlin , I thought with a flicker of malicious amusement. It was a bit of retribution for his brusque manner towards me. He was going to suffer at the hands of the Old Biddies… and I was going to enjoy watching it.
“Ooh, Mabel—you must tell us what you find out from the police.”
“Yes, and don’t forget to mention that Mr Thomas’s gnomes have been going missing from his garden—that might be significant.”
“What about the sewage leak last month? I thought that was very suspicious.”
“Yes, yes, the smell was awful.”
“Do you think maybe it was a ritual killing? I mean, you hear about people getting involved in all sorts of dreadful cults—”
“Aren’t we all rather jumping at conclusions?” my mother spoke up. “I mean, it sounds like the police have a strong suspect in Mike Bailey already and there’s no need for much further investigation.”
Mabel frowned. “But there is a need! I’m telling you, Mike is innocent. If they arrest him, the real murderer will get away.”
“Does Mike have an alibi for Saturday morning?” I asked.
“No,” Mabel admitted. “Not really. The poor boy was hungover and was in bed until nearly noon. But he lives alone so there was no one to confirm that. Glenda did speak to him around eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when she rang to tell him what had happened at the tearoom.”
“That’s hardly an alibi,” I said gently. “After all, the murder happened around eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Well, he told her that he never saw the American again after leaving the pub—he and his friends went to have a curry and then he went home to bed.” Mabel nodded emphatically. “And that’s what he told the police when they questioned him last night.”
“I wonder if the police spoke to anyone else last night,” said Dorothy.
“Yes, they did,” Justine spoke up for the first time. “They questioned me.”
All eyes turned on her.
“You?” Mabel said, “Why would the police question you?”
“Because…” Justine took a deep breath. “Because Smith is my maiden name. My married name is Washington. The murdered man was called Brad Washington and I was his wife.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was still pondering Justine’s bombshell as I cycled slowly to Meadowford-on-Smythe a few hours later. Brad Washington’s wife? I couldn’t believe it. But there had been no doubting her cool certainty. She was married to the American—though they were separated and he lived in the U.S. while she lived in Oxford. As his spouse, she was automatically one of the first suspects the police would consider, but she had an alibi for Saturday morning: she had been at a yoga class, which had started at eight and didn’t end until nine.
“In any case, why would I want to kill him?” she said with laugh. “Brad and I were separated, but it was an amicable separation. We kept in touch occasionally via email but we hardly saw each other. I didn’t even know he was in Oxford until the police showed up on my doorstep on Saturday night.”
Something in the way she said “police” made me wonder if Devlin had been the one who had questioned her. The thought bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.
The book club meeting had
“Who’s Agatha?” I said, really lost now.
Mabel looked at me impatiently. “Why, Agatha Christie, of course!”
“Er… But Mabel, you do realise that those are all just fictional stories? I mean, she made them up, so of course she knew who the killer was and how the murder was committed. She didn’t actually solve any real-life murders.”
Mabel waved this way as if it was a minor detail. “I’m sure the principles are the same, dear. When I get back to Meadowford-on-Smythe later, I’m going to speak to Inspector O’Connor myself.”
Heaven help Devlin , I thought with a flicker of malicious amusement. It was a bit of retribution for his brusque manner towards me. He was going to suffer at the hands of the Old Biddies… and I was going to enjoy watching it.
“Ooh, Mabel—you must tell us what you find out from the police.”
“Yes, and don’t forget to mention that Mr Thomas’s gnomes have been going missing from his garden—that might be significant.”
“What about the sewage leak last month? I thought that was very suspicious.”
“Yes, yes, the smell was awful.”
“Do you think maybe it was a ritual killing? I mean, you hear about people getting involved in all sorts of dreadful cults—”
“Aren’t we all rather jumping at conclusions?” my mother spoke up. “I mean, it sounds like the police have a strong suspect in Mike Bailey already and there’s no need for much further investigation.”
Mabel frowned. “But there is a need! I’m telling you, Mike is innocent. If they arrest him, the real murderer will get away.”
“Does Mike have an alibi for Saturday morning?” I asked.
“No,” Mabel admitted. “Not really. The poor boy was hungover and was in bed until nearly noon. But he lives alone so there was no one to confirm that. Glenda did speak to him around eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when she rang to tell him what had happened at the tearoom.”
“That’s hardly an alibi,” I said gently. “After all, the murder happened around eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Well, he told her that he never saw the American again after leaving the pub—he and his friends went to have a curry and then he went home to bed.” Mabel nodded emphatically. “And that’s what he told the police when they questioned him last night.”
“I wonder if the police spoke to anyone else last night,” said Dorothy.
“Yes, they did,” Justine spoke up for the first time. “They questioned me.”
All eyes turned on her.
“You?” Mabel said, “Why would the police question you?”
“Because…” Justine took a deep breath. “Because Smith is my maiden name. My married name is Washington. The murdered man was called Brad Washington and I was his wife.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was still pondering Justine’s bombshell as I cycled slowly to Meadowford-on-Smythe a few hours later. Brad Washington’s wife? I couldn’t believe it. But there had been no doubting her cool certainty. She was married to the American—though they were separated and he lived in the U.S. while she lived in Oxford. As his spouse, she was automatically one of the first suspects the police would consider, but she had an alibi for Saturday morning: she had been at a yoga class, which had started at eight and didn’t end until nine.
“In any case, why would I want to kill him?” she said with laugh. “Brad and I were separated, but it was an amicable separation. We kept in touch occasionally via email but we hardly saw each other. I didn’t even know he was in Oxford until the police showed up on my doorstep on Saturday night.”
Something in the way she said “police” made me wonder if Devlin had been the one who had questioned her. The thought bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.
The book club meeting had
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