Read Online A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) by H.Y. Hanna - Free Book Online
Authors: H.Y. Hanna
Ads: Link
sat down and he began firing rapid questions at me:
When had I arrived at the tearoom? Had everything looked the same as normal? Had I seen anyone loitering in the area? When did I notice the body in the courtyard? Did I know the deceased? When was the last time I had seen him alive? Had I recognised the item in his mouth?
“Of course I recognised it,” I said impatiently. “It was a scone!”
“One of yours?” Devlin said.
“I don’t know. It’s not like they come with a logo on them, is it?” I snapped.
He raised an eyebrow at my tone but didn’t comment.
I felt slightly ashamed and added grudgingly, “He did buy a bag of scones to take away when he left yesterday. It looks like the bag that’s on the table with him.”
“We’ll take one of your scones for analysis and comparison. Now, you say you arrived slightly later than normal—any reason for that?”
“Because I had to get the bus. I don’t normally—I usually cycle—but I had a flat tyre this morning. Besides, I thought it would be nice to have a break from routine.”
Devlin didn’t say anything, but again he raised that mocking eyebrow. I bristled. His implication was obvious—that he didn’t think I could break from routine. I remembered all our arguments of old; him accusing me of never being able to be spontaneous or do anything without meticulous planning and total control of the situation. Looking back now, I wondered how we could have ever been together. We were such opposites in every way.
Devlin’s eyes met mine briefly and I had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what I was thinking. To cover my discomfort, I launched into a rambling account of the American’s rude behaviour in the tearoom yesterday but, to my irritation, he cut me off, asking me instead to tell him about the incident last night at the Blue Boar again.
“But I don’t think Mike Bailey did it,” I said when I had repeated the story. “I think this is something to do with the University. I think you need to check the American’s—”
“Thank you, Miss Rose, I know how to do my job. I don’t need you to think about what I need to do—I just need you to answer my questions.”
Devlin O’Connor had never spoken to me in that tone of voice before. I stopped and stared at him. For the first time, I realised that this was not the boy I used to know—this was a cold, hard man who was a stranger to me. I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell him about the American’s unusual knowledge of Oxford or his abnormally aggressive reaction yesterday, but now faced with Devlin’s curt attitude, I decided that I wouldn’t bother. If Devlin wanted any more information from me, he could bloody well ask for it! I wasn’t going to volunteer anything else!
“Can I go now?”
He nodded. “I may have some other questions, but for now… yes.”
I stood up stiffly and went into the kitchen, where I could hear raised voices. I opened the door to see the young sergeant sitting on the wooden table, leaning menacingly over Fletcher, in his best imitation of a hard-boiled detective from one of the American TV crime dramas. My poor chef looked like a nervous wreck as he stammered to answer the questions being fired at him. Cassie was sitting on the other side of the table, flushed and angry as she watched helplessly.
“You say you normally arrive at the tearoom a couple of hours before it opens—so why were you so late this morning?” The sergeant’s voice was harsh and accusatory.
Fletcher seemed to shrink into himself. “B-b-because I was sleeping. The alarm w-went off but I didn’t hear it.”
“And why were you so flustered? I see that you’re sweating—you look like you’ve been running. Care to explain why?”
Fletcher looked at him in bewilderment. “B-b-because I was late! I’m supposed to start making the scones really early, otherwise they won’t be ready.”
The sergeant leaned into his face. “So where were you running
When had I arrived at the tearoom? Had everything looked the same as normal? Had I seen anyone loitering in the area? When did I notice the body in the courtyard? Did I know the deceased? When was the last time I had seen him alive? Had I recognised the item in his mouth?
“Of course I recognised it,” I said impatiently. “It was a scone!”
“One of yours?” Devlin said.
“I don’t know. It’s not like they come with a logo on them, is it?” I snapped.
He raised an eyebrow at my tone but didn’t comment.
I felt slightly ashamed and added grudgingly, “He did buy a bag of scones to take away when he left yesterday. It looks like the bag that’s on the table with him.”
“We’ll take one of your scones for analysis and comparison. Now, you say you arrived slightly later than normal—any reason for that?”
“Because I had to get the bus. I don’t normally—I usually cycle—but I had a flat tyre this morning. Besides, I thought it would be nice to have a break from routine.”
Devlin didn’t say anything, but again he raised that mocking eyebrow. I bristled. His implication was obvious—that he didn’t think I could break from routine. I remembered all our arguments of old; him accusing me of never being able to be spontaneous or do anything without meticulous planning and total control of the situation. Looking back now, I wondered how we could have ever been together. We were such opposites in every way.
Devlin’s eyes met mine briefly and I had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what I was thinking. To cover my discomfort, I launched into a rambling account of the American’s rude behaviour in the tearoom yesterday but, to my irritation, he cut me off, asking me instead to tell him about the incident last night at the Blue Boar again.
“But I don’t think Mike Bailey did it,” I said when I had repeated the story. “I think this is something to do with the University. I think you need to check the American’s—”
“Thank you, Miss Rose, I know how to do my job. I don’t need you to think about what I need to do—I just need you to answer my questions.”
Devlin O’Connor had never spoken to me in that tone of voice before. I stopped and stared at him. For the first time, I realised that this was not the boy I used to know—this was a cold, hard man who was a stranger to me. I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell him about the American’s unusual knowledge of Oxford or his abnormally aggressive reaction yesterday, but now faced with Devlin’s curt attitude, I decided that I wouldn’t bother. If Devlin wanted any more information from me, he could bloody well ask for it! I wasn’t going to volunteer anything else!
“Can I go now?”
He nodded. “I may have some other questions, but for now… yes.”
I stood up stiffly and went into the kitchen, where I could hear raised voices. I opened the door to see the young sergeant sitting on the wooden table, leaning menacingly over Fletcher, in his best imitation of a hard-boiled detective from one of the American TV crime dramas. My poor chef looked like a nervous wreck as he stammered to answer the questions being fired at him. Cassie was sitting on the other side of the table, flushed and angry as she watched helplessly.
“You say you normally arrive at the tearoom a couple of hours before it opens—so why were you so late this morning?” The sergeant’s voice was harsh and accusatory.
Fletcher seemed to shrink into himself. “B-b-because I was sleeping. The alarm w-went off but I didn’t hear it.”
“And why were you so flustered? I see that you’re sweating—you look like you’ve been running. Care to explain why?”
Fletcher looked at him in bewilderment. “B-b-because I was late! I’m supposed to start making the scones really early, otherwise they won’t be ready.”
The sergeant leaned into his face. “So where were you running
Similar Books
