The Biscuit Tin Murders #1

A Fatal Fall at King's College

Menna van Praag

Copyright © 2024 by Menna van Praag

First published in Great Britain in 2024

The moral rights of the authors are hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

. Chapter

Author's Note

Cambridge Map

1.

Chapter One

2.

Chapter Two

3.

Chapter Three

4.

Chapter Four

5.

Chapter Five

6.

Chapter Six

7.

Chapter Seven

8.

Chapter Eight

9.

Chapter Nine

10.

Chapter Ten

11.

Chapter Eleven

12.

Chapter Twelve

13.

Chapter Thirteen

14.

Chapter Fourteen

15.

Chapter Fifteen

16.

Chapter Sixteen

17.

Chapter Seventeen

18.

Chapter Eighteen

19.

Chapter Nineteen

20.

Recipe for Bakewell Tart

21.

Preview of The Biscuit Tin Murders #2: A Body in the Graveyard

22.

Acknowledgements

23.

About the Author

24.

Also by the Author

Oscar, this one's for you! With all love, Mama xxx

Author's Note

On Bakewell Tarts:

Although I suggest otherwise, Bakewell Tart (a British classic made of shortcrust pastry with layers of jam, frangipane, chopped almonds and icing) wasn’t actually invented until the 1800s. Some say this was c1820, others that it was the 1840s. Most agree that the invention of this delicious tart should be attributed to Mrs Greaves, landlady of the White House Inn in Derbyshire, who created the Bakewell pudding. Supposedly, it was created when she asked her cook to create a jam tart but the cook made a mistake with the ingredients. It proved so successful, however, that the new recipe stuck and was included in Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery for Private Families in 1845. In 1900 the pudding was developed into a tart.

Millions have been enjoying it ever since!

Please forgive my taking liberties with the history: I simply adore Bakewell Tart and wanted my characters (and readers) to love it too. At the end of this story you'll find a delicious recipe courtesy of Fitzbillies Cafe, Cambridge.

On Biscuits:

While in America, biscuits are a soft, fluffy bread which tend to be eaten with savoury dishes, in Britain biscuits are hard, crisp and sweet (like cookies). Popular varieties in the 1970s include Garibaldi, Bourbons, Malted Milk, Rich Tea, Jammie Dodgers, Party Rings…

Cambridge Map

Naz Ekin Yilmaz

Chapter One

Cambridge. 1st May, 1970.

If there was one piece of advice Olive Crisp always followed, it was that “one should never attempt to solve a crime on an empty stomach”. And so, since one never knew when a crime might present itself – and one could not afford, after all, to be caught unprepared – Olive remained diligent in ensuring that her stomach was never empty. But while Olive certainly enjoyed the amount of eating this lifestyle demanded, she lamented the scarcity of substantial crimes in the sleepy city of Cambridge. Mostly, she had to content herself with thefts of varying degrees of significance, along with the usual plethora of missing dogs, a few errant husbands and other assorted misdemeanours. Sadly, it’d been a slow year so far; the personal highpoint being in January with the capture of the culprit who’d been spiriting milk bottles from her neighbour Etta’s doorstep. In February she’d solved the mystery of the Valentine Meddler who, purporting to be the Mayor, had caused havoc sending racy cards to married women. In March she’d caught the Easter egg snatcher and in April had identified the disgruntled employee who’d been turning Clare College’s laundry pink.

But it’d been six tedious months since a juicer crime had presented itself and, although she’d never admit it in company, Olive longed for a few more. It was unfortunate, of course, for the poor victim of the crime – especially if that crime was a murder – but it was still an undeniable fact that a good mystery made Olive’s otherwise quite uneventful life rather more exciting. Solving mysteries gave her good reason to get up in the morning and provided an undeniable sense of purpose. Besides that, though she hardly admitted it to herself, let alone in company, Olive rather enjoyed seeing Detective Dixon, the officer in charge of overseeing serious crimes, and although falling in love was off-limits in her family there was no harm in looking. Was there? So, it sometimes seemed a shame that so many of her fellow residents proved so well-behaved, so law-abiding, so frustratingly decent.

Nevertheless, Olive lived in hope.

Meanwhile, she made sure to always have sustenance to hand, preferably of the sweet sort. A killer sweet tooth ran in the family and there was nothing to be done about it but follow its impulses and indulge. Fortunately, as the owner of a little café, that never proved to be a problem for, while The Biscuit Tin was small, it was always very well stocked. Tucked beside the famous Eagle pub on Bene’t Street, away from the bustle of the market square and the book-laden academics scurrying between their colleges, the café still proved exceedingly popular, a perennial favourite among the locals and especially beloved for being the first coffee house ever established in England. And, given that she had her own stomach to satisfy in addition to the steady stream of customers, Olive spent several hours every morning baking enough lemon chiffon cakes, lavender biscuits, Black Forest gateaux, blueberry pies and Bakewell tarts to keep everyone happy. Indeed, the only thing she didn’t bake was bread, since she could get every kind of loaf she could possibly want from the bread stall at the market. Olive made a daily pilgrimage to Derek’s for her favourite raisin bread, which she exchanged for his favourite lavender biscuits, and thus they were both content.

The advice regarding crime solving and stomachs had been handed down to Olive, along with the café, by her mother, Myrtle, via the matriarchal lineage that dated back to Louise de Kéroualle, favoured mistress of Charles II, from whom all the Crisp women had also inherited their pretty faces and pleasingly plump physiques. Olive dutifully maintained her own voluptuous figure by the generous consumption of crumpets for breakfast, cake after lunch and pie after dinner – the flavours and fillings differing according to the time of year – and so the structure of her days were, during the duller months, shaped by stocking and consuming the contents of the café’s counters and the many cups of tea that inevitably accompanied every treat.

Olive’s favourites changed with the seasons, excepting the Bakewell tarts which remained a constant, as beloved by Olive as they had been by her greatest of great grandmothers who’d sampled one on her visit to the historic city in 1672, after which the King had bought his mistress The Biscuit Tin as a token of his devotion.

In her honour, the tarts had remained on the menu ever since.

This morning, Olive treated herself to a freshly toasted crumpet accompanied, of course, by lashings of butter and several spoonfuls of marmalade. A few crumpets served as reward for the pre-dawn starts to her days and the toppings rotated according to her moods. Today it was marmalade, tomorrow it might be honey or jam. If Olive needed to lift her energies or remedy a bout of melancholy, it’d be marmite.

But today was a happy day. The first of May, Olive’s favourite month, and the soft morning breeze promised a sunny start to the time when wisteria and bluebells bloomed throughout the sleepy little city and which would hopefully mark a permanent turn from the chilly, drizzly British weather to warmer, drier days as spring slowly became summer. Had it been possible to pause the calendar, to replicate the lighter mornings and brighter evenings throughout the year, Olive would have done so in a heartbeat. Indeed, she sometimes wondered if there existed a place on Earth that boasted mellow weather all year round – not too hot, not too cold but as “just right” as the proverbial porridge enjoyed by Goldilocks. Unlikely, she thought. And, even if it did, Olive wouldn’t really want to know since she could never leave the café.

‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ Olive nibbled the warm crumpet thoughtfully, then took a long sip of milky tea. ‘You know I’ll never trust anyone but a Crisp with The Biscuit Tin.’

As she took another buttery bite, Olive tried not to think on the small matter of there currently being no other Crisps lined up to take her place, when the time came. She tried not to worry about it too much, but she was already forty and the window of opportunity was closing with every passing year. Every matriarch had already given birth to their heir by their third decade and Olive could hear the collective whispers of her ancestors as they fretted over the future of their beloved café without a new little girl pottering about the shop floor or any sign of a man who’d provide the necessary means to produce one.

Crisp women never married and the men they chose to furnish them with their heirs never stayed around long enough to witness what they’d been party to, which was just the way the Crisp women wanted it. They might, regrettably, need the participation of a male to ensure the continuation of their line but because they didn’t need his financial support they certainly weren’t willing to give up their own property and rights by marrying, especially not the risk of losing their daughters. And they always had daughters. From Louise’s offspring onwards, every Crisp woman for the past three centuries had given birth to a single girl who’d inherited The Biscuit Tin from her mother and then gone on, in turn, to do the same.

Olive took another sip of tea. Her own mother had rejected all but the most casual suitors for, even though the laws had changed a little in her favour, Myrtle argued that love weakened a woman’s heart and caused her to do foolish things – “it’s not only your money you can lose,” she’d always say, “but yourself into the bargain.” And so, ever since she knew what love was, Olive had been scared of it happening to her.

And so, while she occasionally took a suitor to bed she’d never allowed herself to develop feelings towards them that went beyond simple fondness. Fortunately, while they’d all been kind, attentive and even attractive men, they’d never proved a risk to her heart. Detective Dixon, on the other hand, already stirred slight dangerous feelings, though they’d never been on a date, let alone kissed.

Olive sighed.

In response, the beaded curtain that separated the entrance to her flat from the café, rustled as if blown by an amiable but concerned breeze.

‘Stop fretting,’ Olive insisted. ‘I told you, I’m trying. And stop worrying, I promise I won’t fall in love.’

In answer the bell above the door chimed: a gentle reminder that she mustn’t lose her head – and certainly not her heart – over any man, no matter how lovely he might be.

This was how Olive’s ancestors communicated; through nudges to the objects and affects of her immediate surroundings. A cynic might claim that these events were merely natural phenomena but Olive knew better. She’d lived in the building on Benet’s Street all her life, taking her first steps in the living room upstairs, baking her first batch of lavender biscuits in the café’s kitchen, and she knew every inch, every creak and crack, of the place like the back of her hand. Olive knew when a breeze was just a breeze, or a spilled bag of sugar just an accident, and she knew when it - along with the rattling of pictures on the walls (all sixteen ancestors were commemorated in oils or celluloid, their images clustered around the tiny café) or a jar falling off a shelf, or the bell above the door chiming in the absence of customers, or a shimmer at the edge of her gaze – was a sign from her family to remind Olive that, though she mustn’t fall in love, she’d certainly never be alone.

Fortunately, she also had Biscuit, her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, as reminder of that. And it was a job Biscuit took as seriously as Olive took eating; following her like a shadow and whimpering if she spent too long in places dogs weren’t permitted to linger. If Olive hadn’t finished baking by seven o’clock, Biscuit would whine and paw at the door until she coaxed her mistresses out. Not only were the Crisp women descended from Louise de Kéroualle but their spaniels were direct descendants of the first pet gifted to her by the King. Such regal pedigree furnished each spaniel with such airs and graces that they were very particular about the company they kept, socialising only with their own breed and permitting themselves to be petted only by a certain calibre of customer and, of course, only deigning to consume certain gourmet cuisines. It meant that Olive spent rather more time than she’d like at the stove sauteing chicken livers and frying fillet steak. Fortunately, Biscuit was also partial to Olive’s baking, though Olive had to be especially careful when it came to keeping her away from chocolate.

Now, as Olive popped the last of the crumpet into her mouth and considered having a second, the bell above the door chimed. Biscuit, absorbed in gobbling her own helping of breakfast crumpets from a fine porcelain bowl at Olive’s feet, paused to glance up as the door swung open – the café greeting one of its favourite customers – and ascertain whether or not this particular customer was deserving of her attention.

‘Morning, Blythe.’ Olive smiled. ‘A little early for you, isn’t it?’

Biscuit barked in greeting, then returned to her crumpets. She adored Blythe Loveday, Olive’s neighbour and owner of the bookshop, One More Chapter, just not quite as much as she adored buttered crumpets.

‘I opened for Mr Harrington,’ Blythe explained. ‘He wanted to study my recent purchase of Dickens’ first editions. I said I’d pop out and pick up some coffee and cake to sweeten the negotiations. Do you have any of that divine blueberry and lemon buttercream left? Or did I eat it all yesterday?’

‘You’re in luck, I baked one last night and just finished icing it this morning.’

‘Baking?’ Blythe rolled her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be baking at night, you should be out meeting nice marriageable men. How do you ever expect to catch a man if you never go fishing?’

‘Oh, please.’ Olive stepped carefully around Biscuit as she headed towards the counter. ‘I have no intention of trying to catch a man and, as I’ve told you a million times, no intention of marrying one either. I might need an heir, but…’

‘I know, I know’ – Blythe held up her hand – ‘Crisp women never marry, that’s what you always say. But I say, that’s only because none of them were ever lucky enough to meet the right man. When you fall in love, you’ll rethink that independence stuff.’

Olive opened her mouth, then closed it again. Blythe was addicted to the glow of romance, the flowers and butterflies, she was always falling in love and not remotely scared of the consequences.

‘Speaking of marriage,’ Olive said. ‘How long do you think it’ll be before your Mr Harrington proposes?’

‘Hush!’ Blythe giggled. ‘You might jinx it. Anyway, he’s not my Mr Harrington, he’s simply a dedicated bibliophile, like myself. He only visits the bookshop as a collector, he’s not courting me.’

Olive swallowed a smile. Such was her friend’s devotion to romance and all its affectations that she often acted as if she lived two hundred years ago in a Jane Austen novel, seeking eligible gentlemen in the 1770s instead of the slightly scruffier bachelors of the 1970s. And, although Olive generally prided herself on her far more pragmatic approach to such matters, she couldn’t help but be touched by Blythe’s hopeful naivety.

‘Oh, no?’ Olive slipped two porcelain plates from the stack beside the display cabinet then began to cut two very generous slices of blueberry and lemon cake. ‘You really think he spends thousands of pounds on first editions because he’s addicted to stories? No man needs that many books, B. And if he did, he’d go to London where he’d get a better selection and a better price. He comes to your bookshop because it has what none of those other places have…’

Blythe frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Olive laughed. ‘You, of course, you silly dolt. You!’

‘Do you really think so?’ Blythe blushed. ‘It’s just – he’s never…’

‘Some men need you to take the initiative,’ Olive said, as she filled the kettle for tea. ‘They’re not all gung-ho Tarzan types, some are more…’ she searched for an analogy her friend would appreciate. ‘Like Mr Bingley.’

‘Oh.’ Blythe, who nurtured a life-long crush on Mr Darcy, looked a little crestfallen. It was no secret that her ideal man was one who’d knock aside obstacles to lift her into his arms and carry her into the sunset. ‘Well, I suppose, perhaps you’re right.’

‘I am,’ Olive said, pitching her voice above the whistle of the kettle. ‘Trust me. Now, why don’t you take the cake across the road and I’ll follow with tea.’

‘Would you?’ Blythe smiled, glancing towards the door, clearly distracted by the thought of how she might induce Mr Harrington to make the first move. ‘That’s so–’

But whatever she’d been about to say was interrupted by the tinkle of the bell and the entrance of yet another early customer. Biscuit, annoyed by yet another interruption to her repast, didn’t even glance up.

‘Morning, Millie.’ Blythe beamed. ‘Lovely to see you. And, if it’s breakfast you’re after, I can highly recommend this cake.’

Millicent Burrows, owner of A Thousand Threads, the haberdashers on King’s Parade, shook her head. ‘Just tea for me,’ she said. ‘I’m too anxious to eat right now.’

‘Anxious?’ Olive, who’d been absently nibbling on stray sugared blueberries while the kettle boiled, looked up. ‘Too anxious to eat?’ This, in their circle of friends, was a phenomenon as rare and strange as sighting a UFO. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

Shaking her head, Millicent pulled out a chair and sat at the table closest to the counter. Hands folded in her lap, she took several deep breaths.

‘Well,’ Blythe prompted, abandoning the plates of cake to sit beside her. ‘What is it?’

But Millicent, never one to waste a dramatic moment, waited while Olive quickly filled the teapot and brought it, along with three cups, to the table. Nipping back for milk and sugar, she sat along with her two friends and waited for the beans to be spilled.

‘Well?’ She echoed Blythe. ‘What’s happened that you’ll turn up your nose at a slice of my cake? It must be pretty awful. It’s not your health is it? Please, tell me–’

‘No, no.’ Millicent shook her head again. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Olive and Blythe spoke in unison, putting their hands over their hearts to punctuate their relief.

‘You know what…’ Millicent glanced at the display cabinet laden with fresh delights: peach flapjacks, iced buns, chocolate macaroons… ‘Perhaps I will have something small. Just a morsel. How about a lavender biscuit?’

Olive smiled, relieved to see her friend returning. ‘Certainly.’ She stood and hurried back to the counter, picking up a plate and piling it high with newly baked biscuits. Glancing at a similar collection of warm crumpets beside the toaster, Olive suppressed the urge to prepare herself a second. For, much as her mouth watered for more melted butter, she knew her friend deserved her attention.

‘Here you go.’ Olive set the plate down, smiling as both Millicent and Blythe simultaneously reached out for one. Millicent’s distress couldn’t be so very bad after all, Olive thought with a smile. To compensate for the abandoned crumpet, Olive took a biscuit too. Closing her eyes while she chewed, silence fell and everything else was momentarily forgotten while they all savoured the happily delicious moment.

‘So.’ Blythe was the first to finish. ‘You’ve held us in suspense long enough, now tell us everything.’

Still, Millicent hesitated, clearly enjoying the spotlight. To give her a nudge, Olive started pouring the tea.

‘A little more milk, please,’ Millicent said, helping herself to another biscuit.

‘Enough teasing,’ Blythe declared. ‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Millicent said, once more assuming the look of shocked distress she’d had when she’d entered the café. ‘Don’t rush me.’ Lifting the cup to her lips to take a restorative sip of tea, she was about to take another when she noticed that Blythe was now holding her breath and had turned an unnatural shade of puce.

‘Okay.’ Millicent set down her cup in its saucer. ‘The police have blocked off King’s Parade. They’re tight-lipped about what’s going on, but–’

‘The police?’ Olive interrupted. ‘Was Hugo–Detective Dixon there?’

‘Hugo.’ Millicent and Blythe crooned in unison. ‘Hugoooo.’

‘Stop it!’ Olive did her very best not to blush. ‘You sound like a couple of teenagers. I do not have a crush on Detective Dixon.’

‘Don’t you?’ Blythe retorted. ‘Well then you’re the only woman in Cambridge who doesn’t.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Olive said. ‘He’s not that handsome.’

‘Oh, yes he is,’ Millicent sighed. ‘Handsome and charming and clever and thoughtful and…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Olive interrupted. ‘What’s going on? And why are the police involved?’ She could feel her heart starting to race in anticipation, here was a promise that life was about to get rather more exciting, and not simply because Hugo Dixon was involved.

‘Fine,’ Millicent huffed. ‘So, the gorgeous detective wasn’t letting anything slip, but the Dean’s wife is a loyal customer, she knits her boys woollen jumpers at a furious rate and I always give her a good discount on wool. Not that she needs it really, given that her horrible husband is rich as Croesus, and rude as hell. I’ve never met such a hideous snob, but that’s by the by. Anyway, she told me that last night one of their students was…’ – even in the face of Blythe’s frustration, still Millicent couldn’t resist pausing again for an imaginary drumroll – ‘murdered.’

Now Olive sat up. ‘Murdered?’

She tried to frame her expression into one of studied concern. But secretly she could barely contain her excitement. Here, at last, was a crime she could get her teeth into. Especially now that her belly was pleasingly full of Earl Grey, buttered crumpets and lavender biscuits. Perhaps, Olive thought, this May would prove to be her favourite month in more ways than one.

‘Well,’ Olive said, keeping her voice calm. ‘What happened?’

‘Yes, go on.’ Blythe took another biscuit. ‘Tell us all the juicy details.’

‘The students were climbing the college turrets again,’ Millicent explained. ‘You know, the ones calling themselves The Night Climbers, and one of them fell off.’

Olive’s spirits sank. ‘Wait, I thought you said it was murder. That sounds more like an accident.’

‘Perhaps,’ Millicent admitted. ‘But Tabitha suggested there were whisperings of a love affair, and it’s possible he might have been pushed by his rival. The Dean, naturally, is trying to keep everything hush-hush, avoiding a scandal and all that, but Tabby said she’d been hearing things…’

‘Ah.’ Olive brightened. ‘Well, that sounds more promising. Which, of course, isn’t to say that it’s not a terrible tragedy.’

‘No doubt,’ Blythe agreed. ‘An awful shame and all that. But really, you must have a death wish to do such a stupid thing, so I don’t feel so very bad for him.’

‘Blythe!’ Millicent chastised her. ‘A young man is dead. Where’s your compassion?’

‘Oh, I feel terribly bad for his poor parents,’ Blythe said. ‘And him, of course. But really, it was only a matter of time before one of those Night Climbers fell to their deaths. Anyway’ – she turned to Olive – ‘why don’t you get out your tarot cards? Then you can tell us whether it was an accident or murder…’

Chapter Two

Millicent and Blythe watched, breath held, as Olive set her tarot cards carefully on the table. They were silent now, all remnants of breakfast cleared away, as Olive solemnly shuffled the cards. Even Biscuit, sitting with her front paws on her mistress’ feet, remained quiet. As she shuffled, Olive closed her eyes, focusing her mind on an image of a boy falling from a turret and her thoughts on one question:  was it an accident, or a murder?

She shuffled and shuffled until, at last, she stopped. Slowly pulling three cards from the deck she placed them, face down, on the table.

Olive opened her eyes. Millicent and Blythe blinked back at her, till they turned their gaze in unison back to the cards. All three held their breath as Olive turned over the first card.

Death.

Blythe gasped.

‘It doesn’t mean death,’ Olive said, quickly. ‘Not literally anyway. Depending on its place in the spread it most often means a change, a new beginning, that sort of thing.’

Blythe looked unconvinced.

‘Turn over the next one,’ Millicent suggested.

Olive did so.

The Tower.

Now Millicent gasped. ‘You can’t say that card has any positive interpretations,’ she said. ‘The Tower is indisputably bad news, isn’t it?’

Olive nodded. ‘And it can hardly be a coincidence that he actually fell from a tower. I mean, that’s too much… right?’ As her friends nodded and Olive held her breath again, heart thudding in her chest, they all stared at the cards as she turned over the third one.

The Devil.

Now even Olive gasped. And she wasn’t alone.

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that now,’ Blythe said. ‘Do you?’

Slowly, Olive shook her head.

She’d been reading the tarot deck all her life and, as three-card readings went, it didn’t come much more ominous. Except perhaps if she’d drawn the Five of Cups or Three of Swords instead of Death, but even then with a reading this unequivocal that’d only be splitting hairs. There was no question what the tarot was telling her. Whoever had tumbled from the rooftops of King’s College, hadn’t fallen. He’d been pushed.

Olive, Blythe and Millicent stared down at the cards a while longer without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts but each caught by the extra edge of sadness and shock that comes from discovering a death wasn’t accidental but intentional. Even Olive, who welcomed a juicy mystery to spice up her otherwise humdrum life, felt that.

‘You should talk to Detective Dixon,’ Blythe was the first to break the silence. ‘I’ll bet he’s still at the scene. Just take a moment to brighten your cheeks with a little blush; lipstick never hurts either, and perhaps a little mascara…’ She tipped her head to one side to continue her appraisal. ‘Also, with your pale skin those blonde brows are near invisible, you could–’

‘Stop!’ Olive covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m not going on a date. This is a crime scene we’re talking about. I hardly think Detective Dixon will be paying any attention to the way I look when he’s got a murder on his hands.’

Blythe gave a derisive snort. ‘Are you kidding? Men are always paying attention to the way a woman looks. They can’t help it. It’s in their DNA.’

‘True,’ Millicent agreed. ‘Unless, of course, they’ve been married ten years and then they don’t. At least, they stop noticing the way their wife looks, even when she’s had a dramatically eye-catching and, I might add, very flattering, perm and dye which turned her from a brunette into a redhead…’

Millicent gulped down the rest of her words as tears filled her eyes. Olive and Blythe each reached across the table and squeezed her hands.

‘Your husband was a fool, Millicent,’ Blythe said. ‘A philandering scoundrel who’ll be rueing the day he ever let you go.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Millicent sniffed. ‘I bet that secretary of his is still entertaining him well enough that he doesn’t even spare me a second thought.’

Her friends fell silent a moment, both trying to think of something comforting to say, both studiously avoiding mentioning the fact that Olive had given Millicent a tarot reading the week before her wedding day which had strongly suggested she shouldn’t walk down the aisle but run screaming in the opposite direction instead.

‘That wretch didn’t deserve you,’ Olive said. ‘You’ll find someone who does.’

Millicent sighed. ‘Twenty years ago I might’ve agreed with you, but no man wants a woman in her sixties. Not even men in their sixties. That’s the sad truth of it.’ She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, enough about all that. Why don’t we  pop along to my shop? That way, if you happen to bump into Detective Dixon…’

‘Alright then.’ Olive returned the three tarot cards to the deck and packed them away in their silk-lined box. ‘If it’ll take your mind off that reprobate, I will.’ That the mystery would provide a frisson of excitement and intrigue to her morning (in addition to seeing Hugo) Olive declined to mention.

Biscuit jumped up as soon as Olive stood, anticipating an adventure, and as soon as she’d put the cards away in their special hidden drawer in the antique dresser that covered most of the left wall, Olive lifted her coat from the hatstand beside the front door and slipped it on.

‘Well,’ she turned to her friends, still seated. ‘Shall we go?’

Millicent stood but Blythe hesitated. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take a minute to apply just a little makeup?’

‘B,’ Olive laughed. ‘I’m not trying to seduce Detective Dixon. And, even if I was, I wouldn’t do it by pretending to be someone I’m not. He can take me as I am or not at all.’

‘Well said.’ Millicent clapped. ‘Well said.’

‘Fine.’ Blythe rolled her eyes. ‘I was just trying to help.’

‘I don’t need your help,’ Olive said. ‘I told you, I’m perfectly happy as I am.’

‘You say that now,’ Blythe retorted. ‘But in twenty years, when you’re old and alone you won’t be so…’ She trailed off, suddenly aware of what she’d said. ‘Sorry, Millicent, I didn’t mean…’

‘Why is it that the young never think they’ll be old?’ Millicent said a little huffily as she pushed back her chair. ‘And why do they think that the older generation are somehow a different species of human, without the same thoughts, feelings and desires as themselves?’

Blushing with shame, Blythe opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again.

‘Thank you.’ Millicent walked towards the front door. ‘Because you didn’t deny it, I’ll forgive you.’

‘Sorry,’ Blythe muttered, as they both hurried after Olive, who’d already stepped out onto the street, followed by an excitable Biscuit, delighted by the unexpected morning walk. She trotted alongside the three friends as they turned along Bene’t Street and headed for King’s Parade.

Before they’d reached A Thousand Threads, Olive and Blythe saw what Millicent had meant. The shop stood almost directly across the street from King’s College and half a dozen policemen were gathered in the cobbled courtyard outside the tall wooden gates, flanked by three police cars and a white van.

‘Gosh,’ Blythe gasped. ‘You weren’t wrong, Millicent, it’s like a film set.’

Olive gazed at the scene, her heart starting to race. At her ankles, Biscuit started to bark excitedly.

‘Shush, shush.’ Olive bent down to rub Biscuit’s silky ears. ‘There’s a good girl.’

Across the road, Detective Dixon – a full head taller than his fellow officers and strikingly handsome even at a distance – glanced up. His gaze held on Olive. And when she looked up, she met his gaze and held it a moment too, then glanced away.

‘Let’s leave Olive to it, shall we?’ Millicent gave Blythe a knowing look. ‘Detective Dixon might get spooked if we all show up together.’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ Blythe protested. ‘I want to meet the sexy detective too.’

‘You’re insatiable.’ Millicent laughed. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t waste your time, I don’t think our detective has eyes for anyone else but our Olive. I–’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Olive interrupted. ‘He’s just a customer who happens to be a detective who I happen to have helped or, as he’d probably say, “interfered” with a few police cases. We’ve barely even had coffee together, let alone been on a date.’

‘Oh, please,’ Blythe said. ‘He visits you at the drop of a hat. I see him in and out of the café all the time.’ She held up her hands. ‘Not that I’ve been watching, of course, I just happen–’

‘–notice every single handsome man that passes your book shop,’ Millicent finished.

‘So?’ Blythe shrugged. ‘What’s the harm in that?’

‘Detective Dixon just has an appreciation for my Bakewell tarts,’ Olive said. ‘And no, before you say anything, B, that’s not a euphemism.’

Blythe giggled. ‘If you say so.’

Millicent pushed open the door to her shop. ‘Come on, trouble-maker, we’ll wait for Olive in here.’

‘Fine, be a spoilsport.’ Blythe sighed. ‘But I’d better get back to the bookshop, Mr Harrington will be wondering where I am. I told him I was going out for tea and cake nearly an hour ago.’

‘You’d better go then,’ Millicent said. ‘He might’ve made off with half your stock by now.’

‘Hardly,’ Blythe said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘I’m sure I can trust him, a fellow bibliophile and all that…’ She paused, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘But still, I should probably, um, go.’ And she’d hurried off along the street before either Millicent or Olive could say anything else.

Olive gave her friend a playful nudge. ‘You’re such a tease.’

‘She shouldn’t have called me “old”,’ Millicent said with a wink. ‘Now, I think you’d better go too, before he’s’ - she nodded at the group of policemen - ‘called back to the station for paperwork.’

‘Meet me at the café for lunch?’ Olive said. ‘We can catch up then.’

Millicent nodded. ‘What’s on the menu?’

‘Mushroom pie.’ Olive started crossing the street. ‘With tarragon and garlic.’

‘Sounds delicious. Wouldn’t miss it.’

‘Great.’ Olive patted her leg for Biscuit to follow and they both set off towards King’s College at a brisk pace.

‘Miss Crisp,’ Detective Dixon said as she reached him. ‘What a happy coincidence. I wondered how long it might be before you came sniffing about the crime scene.’

‘What?’ Olive assumed an air of innocence, inwardly cursing herself for not having the foresight to bring him an offering, a little apple-chestnut tart to sweeten her interrogation. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I just happened to be visiting Millicent and saw all this hullabaloo across the street.’ She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘And, well, you can’t blame a girl for being curious, can you?’

Detective Dixon smiled, his large blue eyes bright with merriment. ‘Just coincidence, eh? Like the time you stumbled upon the Histon Manor murder, or the Trinity College kidnapping, or…’

‘You know I have a sixth sense about these things,’ Olive whispered, surreptitiously guiding him away from the group of policemen, walking till they were out of earshot. ‘I can’t help it. And, anyway, if I rightly recall my assistance on those cases was rather invaluable in helping you catch the culprits, so…’

She gave him a winning smile and he returned it with a wry grin.

‘Your unauthorised assistance,’ Hugo amended. ‘But yes, I can’t deny it. You’ve been very helpful. To say nothing of those cherry tarts of yours providing rocket fuel for my weary brain just when I need it most.’

‘Bakewell tarts,’ Olive corrected. ‘And you’re welcome to one now, if you like. Fresh from the oven and on the house.’

Hugo raised a single eyebrow, pulling his hand through his thick black hair as he fought between the urge for a delicious pastry and the requirements of his job. Olive watched the fight on his face, before forcing herself to look away. Gazing at Hugo Dixon was like looking too long at the sun, it’d blind you and render you senseless to making sensible, rational decisions.

‘Much as I’d love to take you up on the offer,’ he broke the silence. ‘I’m afraid I must remain at my post. Too many witnesses and wagging tongues’ - he nodded towards his fellow officers, still gathered in a circle - ‘to report on me shirking my duties. Even if…’

He stopped and Olive looked at him again. ‘Even if, what?’

‘I shouldn’t say anything.’ Hugo sighed. ‘Not till it’s public knowledge.’

Olive smiled. ‘How about if I was to hurry back to the café and return with a chestnut-apple tart and cup of hot, sweet coffee? No milk, two sugars. Then might you tell me? In the strictest confidence, of course.’

‘Oh, Miss Crisp, you drive a hard bargain.’ The detective laughed. ‘Alright then, you’ve got a deal but I’m afraid it’s going to disappoint you.’

‘Disappoint me?’ Olive cocked her head to one side. ‘How?’

‘Well,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I suspect you wanted another mystery to solve, but I’m afraid you’ve not got one here. It was an accident.’

‘An accident?’ Olive echoed.

‘Yes.’ Hugo nodded. ‘An accident.’

‘But…’ Olive shook her head, slightly dumbfounded. ‘No, no it wasn’t.’

Hugo frowned. ‘Yes it was. And we’ve got six eye witnesses who’ve confirmed it. So unless you happened to be climbing the towers of King’s College after midnight and saw him being pushed, then I’m afraid I can’t just take your word for it.’

Olive opened her mouth, then closed it again.

‘Sorry.’ Detective Dixon gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I know that wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but…’

‘But what if they’re lying?’ Olive protested. At her feet, Biscuit barked in agreement. ‘You’ve only got their word for it too.’

‘True enough,’ he conceded. ‘But their stories are all in accord and the specific details are consistent with how the body fell, along with the lack of suspicious markings or injuries to suggest anything other than an accidental death.’ He paused. ‘Besides, the Dean vouches for their general good conduct and, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, and since we won’t be recommending an autopsy, that will be the coroner’s verdict.’

Biscuit barked again and Olive shook her head. ‘But, but…’

‘Dixon!’

The detective turned back to his officers.

‘The Dean called the boy’s parents,’ the officer said. ‘Says they’ll be here in four hours. Coming all the way from up north, Middle Earth or some such. Will you be able to meet them today?’

‘Middle Earth?’ Hugo’s frown deepened. ‘Do you mean Middlesborough?’

The officer shrugged. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Sorry.’ Hugo turned back to Olive, lightly touching her shoulder. ‘Much as I’d love to take you up on that offer, I’m afraid I’d better get back to the station and start on the mountain of paperwork that awaits me.’

Olive nodded, frustrated that his touch gave her goosebumps in spite of herself. This was only about the mystery, she told herself, not the man investigating it.

‘Of course,’ Olive said. ‘Duty calls.’

As Hugo hurried off, she followed his departure down the street, grateful that neither her mother nor her assorted ancestors were there to watch her watching him go.

Chapter Three

‘Are you sure?’

Olive nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘Perhaps he was lying. Perhaps he just didn’t want to tell you. Perhaps the police are keeping it a secret for now because they don’t want it leaking to the press.’

Having waited until five o’clock, when each of their respective shops closed, the friends reconvened at the café to decide what was to be done. They now sat around the table at the window, with Biscuit at Olive’s feet, and a pot of tea, three mushroom and tarragon pies and a small selection of cakes and biscuits leftover from the day’s sales.

‘Perhaps.’ Olive smiled. ‘But you think I can’t tell when a man lies?’

‘I wish I could.’ Millicent sighed. ‘Then I might’ve saved myself years of heartbreak.’

‘It’s much harder when you’re in love.’ Blythe rested her hand on Millicent’s wrist. ‘And almost impossible when they’re handsome and seductive into the bargain.’ She gave a sad smile and shrugged. ‘It’s the fatal trifecta.’

‘True.’ Olive agreed. ‘Not that I’ve ever experienced it myself.’

‘Really?’ Blythe raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, if you’re not in love with Mr Charming Detective yet, then just give it time. A man like that is hard to come by.’

‘Anyway,’ Olive changed the subject. ‘That’s not the point right now. The point is that the police are convinced that this boy’s death is an accident when we know it wasn’t. And yet–’

‘And yet, you can’t exactly tell Mr Charming that your evidence is based on a tarot reading,’ Millicent finished. ‘Since I’m guessing such claims won’t hold up in court and would probably even have you laughed out of the station.’

‘Yes,’ Olive said. ‘I can’t tell Hu–Detective Dixon about the cards, he’d think I’m crazy. I mean, in the past, whenever I’ve got involved in his cases, I’ve just told him I had hunches, women’s instinct, then found actual concrete evidence to back it up. If he had any idea I was basing it all on some kind of mystic intuition, he’d never take me seriously again.’

Millicent and Blythe sighed simultaneously, as if to say: “men.”

‘What if you gave him a reading?’ Blythe suggested. ‘That might change his mind, or at least give him pause for thought. Remember how sceptical Mrs Wilder was before you gave her that reading on her daughter-in-law and it revealed she was having an affair with her boss? The cards are never wrong, after all.’

‘True,’ Olive considered. ‘But something tells me Detective Dixon isn’t going to open up his professional or personal life to a tarot reading, so I don’t see how I can convince him of anything.’

Millicent sipped her tea. ‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Olive mused as she took a thoughtful bite of her pie. ‘But I think the first thing to do is speak to the porters at King’s College. They know everything that goes on: the literal and metaphorical gatekeepers, the holders of all gossip.’

‘Yes.’ Millicent set down her cup. ‘But I wouldn’t be very optimistic about getting anything out of them, they’re a tight-lipped lot and exceedingly loyal to their colleges. If anything untoward is going on, you’ll never hear it from them.’

‘Perhaps…’ Olive smiled. ‘But I’ve got my ways of making men talk.’

‘I’ll bet you do.’ Blythe laughed. ‘Let me guess, it involves that pretty green summer dress of yours that’s the exact colour of your eyes and happens to perfectly highlight two of your other assets as well.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Olive winked. ‘The Head Porter is a regular customer, coming in for elevenses every morning for a cup of Earl Grey and an almond croissant. I daresay he’s as loyal to The Biscuit Tin as to King’s College; I don’t think he’d risk losing access to his favourite treats…’

‘Oh, Olive Crisp!’ Blythe grinned. ‘Aren’t you the wily one?’

‘Well.’ Olive popped a coconut macaron into her mouth. ‘Until women are granted access to the real channels of power and influence, we’ll just have to make best use of whatever alternative routes present themselves now, won't we?’

‘Amen to that.’ Millicent grinned. ‘Amen to that.’

Chapter Four

The following morning, Olive packed up a box of warm almond croissants, along with a flask of Earl Grey tea and set off, with Biscuit at her heels, towards King’s Parade. The grand building of King’s College, stretching along (almost) the entirety of one side of the road, only making way for the Senate House at the far end and although a bastion to social exclusivity it was nevertheless an edifice of undeniably breathtaking beauty: with intricate stone carvings across an expansive facade, stained glass windows of dazzling, detailed loveliness and impossibly delicate stone pinnacles and turrets that stretched high into the sky. Olive could (almost) understand why someone of a daring disposition might want to climb the towers to sit on the rooftops among all that splendour.

‘Be on your best behaviour now Biscuit,’ Olive instructed the spaniel. ‘You know Mr Bennett isn’t keen on yapping.’

Biscuit gave a disgruntled yap in response.

‘I know, I know,’ Olive tutted. ‘At your last encounter he admonished you quite severely. Unnecessarily so. Which is why I’m warning you now; the Porter’s Lodge is his territory after all, so we have to respect his rules. Besides, we need to be at our most charming today since I’m very much hoping to extract some information from our Mr Bennett today.’

Biscuit yapped again, softer this time. Inquisitive.

‘I don’t know,’ Olive admitted. ‘That’s the thing. And I’m not even sure if he knows anything. But if there is anything to know, anything to prove my position, then Mr Bennett will know it.’

Olive slowed as they reached the front gate of King’s College. One of the junior porters, fully kitted out in suit, tie and bowler hat, stood beside the large wooden doors of intricately carved oak, casually barring the way.

‘Good morning, Miss.’

‘Good morning,’ Olive said, assuming her most authorial, yet friendly, tone. ‘I’m here to see Mr Bennett.’

The junior porter frowned, officiously adjusting his tie. ‘Is he expecting you?’

‘Well, no,’ Olive admitted. ‘But I’m quite sure he’ll be happy to see me.’

The young man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not one of them journos, are you? We’ve had a bunch of them sniffing about since the…’ He bowed his head. ‘Terrible incident here yesterday. And the boss has told me to tell anyone like that to sling their hook. So-’

‘Oh, no,’ Olive exclaimed, as if the mere idea was horrifying. ‘No, no. I’m the owner of The Biscuit Tin. I’m bringing’ – she opened the Tupperware lid just enough to reveal a tantalising glimpse of the contents – ‘a box of his favourite breakfast pastries. I was passing this way anyway, so then he doesn’t have to leave his post to come to the café.’

The junior porter, who’d clearly been relishing the opportunity to banish Olive from the scene, quickly reconsidered at the sight of the head porter’s beloved croissants. A number of emotions passed in quick succession across his pale face: annoyance, concern, irritation, frustration and, finally, resignation. Who was he to stand between his boss and his breakfast? And what would be the consequences if he did? The junior porter gave a slight shudder at the thought.

‘Alright.’ Unfolding his arms, he took a few steps to heave open the door. ‘But you can’t bring that in with you.’ He directed a disgusted nod at Biscuit, who glowered up at him. ‘Mr Bennett can’t abide dogs.’

‘Would you rather I left her out here with you?’ Olive smiled her most innocent, gracious smile while Biscuit affected her most aggressive snarl. ‘It’s so kind of you to offer to watch her. I didn’t–’

‘No, no,’ the junior porter shook his head so rapidly his bowler hat nearly fell off. ‘I can’t be doing that. Against college rules. You’ll have to take her in and if Mr Bennett chucks you out again, then don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I won’t.’ Olive gave him a parting, triumphant smile, before stepping through the open doors and into King’s College. ‘Come on Biscuit, let’s go.’

Olive took a sharp left turn towards the Porter’s Lodge, as Biscuit bounded in after her, and the ancient wooden door slammed shut behind her.

Just as she was walking in, another man, dressed to the nines in a silk suit, tie – diamond tie-pin glinting in the sunlight – and scholars’ robes, was marching out.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he snapped. ‘Would you get out of my way?’

‘Sorry–’

‘Forever faffing and dilly-dallying,’ he muttered, pushing past her towards the door. ‘And you expect us to give you the honour of admittance – we’ve got enough of the bloody working classes as it is, a plague, that’s what…’

The heavy wooden door banged behind him, swallowing the rest of his rant.

Olive watched him go, wide-eyed as Mr Bennett stepped out of the Porter’s Lodge.

‘Well, Miss Crisp.’ Mr Bennett’s face lit up at the sight of her.

‘Mr Bennett,’ Olive smiled. She nodded back at door. ‘Who was that delightful gentleman?’

‘Ah,’ the Head Porter nodded. ‘That would be our new Dean. He joined us in January, formerly headmaster at Eton. He can be a little… brusque.’

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Olive said.

‘So,’ Mr Bennett said. ‘Whatever brings you to our humble dwelling?’

‘Hardly humble.’ Olive nodded towards the chapel, a spectacular creation in stained glass and stone. ‘You’ve got arguably the best view in Cambridge from where you stand.’

‘Well.’ Mr Bennett’s smile widened into one of indulgent pride, as if he’d hewn the stone from the rocks himself five hundred years ago and chiselled each statue and carving. ‘It’s not too shabby, I suppose. Now, am I wrong in imagining that I can detect the scent of your delectable almond croissants in my vicinity?’

‘You are not wrong.’ Olive snapped open the Tupperware to display her offering in all its glory. ‘Six of my delectable almond croissants, to be exact.’

‘Oh!’ Mr Bennett brought his hands to his mouth, as if the plastic tub contained gold bullion instead of laminated pastry. ‘My goodness, Miss Crisp, whoever has ordered such a banquet? I can only imagine–’

‘You.’ Olive grinned. ‘They’re all for you.’

‘Me?’ The Head Porter dropped his hands in astonishment and pressed one to his chest. ‘Please tell me you’re not teasing. I don’t think my poor heart could take it.’

‘I’m not teasing.’ Olive handed over the box. ‘I brought you a flask of your favourite tea too – steeped for three and a half minutes, a dash of milk and a soupcon of sugar – to accompany them.’

‘Oh, Miss Crisp!’ He took the Tupperware and, pressing it to his chest, took a long, appreciative sniff of the sweet, warm contents. ‘Whatever have I done to deserve this? Mrs Bennett doesn’t spoil me this well even on my birthday.’

‘Take a bite,’ Olive suggested. ‘They’re at their best when they’re fresh.’

Not needing to be told twice, Mr Bennett took a bite, then another and, a moment later, had polished off two of the six. Olive fished the flask of tea from her bag, glancing down at Biscuit who stood to perfectly silent attention at her feet. Not a peep. Olive gave the dog a grateful wink.

‘Here you go.’ She handed him the flask. ‘Keep hold of it.’

Mr Bennett took the flask with a nod and a smile. ‘So, whatever can I do to repay such generosity?’ He asked, removing a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his lips. ‘Surely this is not a service you provide to all your devoted customers, or you’d be rushed off your feet running errands all over the city!’

‘Well…’ Olive ventured. ‘Now that you mention it, I was hoping to pick your brains about a small matter.’

Mr Bennett gave her a knowing smile. ‘Let me guess. This wouldn’t have anything to do with yesterday’s terrible tragedy on the college grounds now would it?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Olive said, returning his smile with a wry smile of her own. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to ask you about.’

She held her breath, fully expecting to be dismissed. Kindly, but quickly.

‘Go ahead then,’ he said. ‘Ask away.’

‘Really?’ Olive exhaled. ‘You’re sure? I promise I won’t whisper a word of whatever you tell me to a living soul. That’s to say,’ she thought of her two best friends and knew it was hopeless to expect herself to keep a secret from either of them for more than a minute. ‘I mean, no members of the public or press, only–’

Mr Bennett held up his hand. ‘Do not worry, Miss Crisp. I have full confidence in your discretion and no doubt of your wisdom in assessing the discretion of others. I will tell you what I know. Now, what do you wish to ask?’

As they talked, clutches of students, in small groups and alone, hurried past as they left or entered the college, weaving round Olive and Mr Bennett as if they were two inanimate obstacles blocking the path. Only one paused to acknowledge them: a tall skinny young man wearing a tight flowered shirt and bell-bottom cords the colour of mustard.

‘Morning George,’ he said. ‘Fine start to the day, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is, Mr Simpson.’ The Head Porter doffed his hat. ‘And I trust that you’ll enjoy the rest of it now.’

‘Not when I’m spending the duration in the engineering department,’ Mr Simpson returned with a resigned grin. ‘But I’ll try.’

‘How many of them know you by name?’ Olive asked, as Mr Simpson darted away.

‘Oh, not many.’ Mr Bennett shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. ‘But these young men have a lot on their minds; the future leaders of our country. They can’t be expected to keep hold of every inconsequential fact.’

Olive said nothing, though it saddened her to hear him speak of himself like this. He was just as important as the boys he presided over – organising a great many unseen administrational and organisational aspects of their college lives – be they future Prime Ministers or not.

‘Well.’ She touched his arm gently. ‘You’re a man of consequence to me. And a great many others too, of that I’m quite certain.’

Mr Bennett gave her a grateful smile. ‘I’ve been manning this post, with diligence and deference, the best part of forty years,’ he said. ‘After doing my duty and serving my country. And I daresay not a handful of fifty thousand boys in all that time would recognise me in the street.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘It might be nice to be acknowledged now and then. Anyway,’ he shook his head. ‘What was it you wanted to ask?’

Olive made a mental note to bring almond croissants to Mr Bennett every Friday morning from now on. ‘I wondered if there was anything you could tell me about the boy who fell,’ she said. ‘Was there anything to suggest…’ She dropped her voice, as another gaggle of noisy young men barrelled past them. ‘That it might not have been an accident?’

‘I’ve been asking myself the same thing,’ Mr Bennett admitted. ‘I know he wasn’t too popular; one of the grammar school boys who are increasingly common of late. Hardly ever saw the likes of them when I started. A jolly good thing, equality and all that, though there are those who disagree, who’d have them banished given half the chance, claiming they’ve not got the manners and ways of the Eton and Winchester boys, if you catch my drift.’

Olive nodded. She knew what he meant well enough, encountering their type on a daily basis in the café: loud voices and even louder opinions. And, as for their “manners”... Well, she didn’t think much of those either. The tutors were usually far better behaved, excepting the odd obnoxious one. But for the Dean of King’s, well, he was as bad as his snottier students, often worse, treating Olive like his personal servant.

‘What was his name?’ She asked.

‘The boy? Jack Witstable. Second Year Classics student. Shy, sensitive type. But even then he always said his greetings whenever he passed the lodge.’ Mr Bennett gave a sad smile. ‘I appreciated that. I must say, I didn’t have him pegged for a ladies man. Even thought he might’ve sailed in the other direction, if you catch my drift.’

Olive frowned a moment before understanding dawned. ‘What makes you say that?’

Mr Bennett shrugged. ‘Experience. One gets a sense of these things. But I’ll admit I may have been wrong on that count since he used to entertain a lovely young lady here from time to time. He was such a nice boy, and he seemed so friendless that I’d even let him sneak her up to his room after hours sometimes.’ He dropped his voice, looking slightly stricken. ‘I do hope that doesn’t make you think less of me, or offend your sense of propriety. It’s certainly not something I’d permit in any other student. It was just…’

‘Just, what?’ Olive prompted.

‘He always seemed so sad,’ Mr Bennett explained. ‘As if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And then, a few weeks ago the young lady stopped visiting and Jack became even more melancholic than usual. He never said as much, of course, but I’m guessing she broke his heart, poor chap.’

Olive considered this. ‘I don’t suppose you know her name?’

The Head Porter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Crisp.’

Olive looked crestfallen.

‘But…’

She glanced up, suddenly hopeful. Biscuit’s ears twitched.

‘She often wore a Newnham scarf,’ he said.

‘Really?’ Olive brightened.

‘Yes.’ He nodded and smiled, clearly pleased to be able to offer this nugget of good news. ‘And though it’s hard to judge, I’m quite certain she was a second or third year. Freshers have a look about them, a cloak of anxious anticipation they wear like their Matriculation robes. Most don’t divest themselves of that till the end of Easter term, and we only began it last week, so…’

‘Alright,’ Olive said. ‘And how many new students joined the college last year?’

‘One hundred and twenty.’

‘A hundred and twenty,’ Olive echoed, weighing up the possibilities presented by this new information. While she did so, Mr Bennett munched thoughtfully on his third almond croissant. And then, just as she seemed struck by a plot of inspiration, Olive’s delight crumpled.

‘What is it, Miss Crisp?’ He asked. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

‘I just realised the flaw in my thinking,’ Olive replied.

‘What thinking?’

‘When you mentioned the girl and then him being heartbroken, naturally I thought that she must have left him for one of the other boys – the Night Climbers – and then… But if that was the case then surely it’d make more sense for Jack to have pushed him off the rooftop, not the other way around. Don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ Mr Bennett agreed, dabbing the crumbs from his mouth. ‘That’s true.’

‘So then, why would another boy have cause to push Jack?’

Mr Bennett gave a slight shrug. ‘Perhaps the young lady has nothing to do with it,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps it was another reason entirely. These boys can be awfully competitive and Jack was smarter than most. Perhaps they were jealous of that.’

‘Perhaps…’ Olive considered. ‘But exam results are hardly a motive for murder. Love, in my experience, is far more common.’

Mr Bennett smiled. ‘In your experience, Miss Crisp? I didn’t realise, if you’ll forgive the liberty, that you had a great deal of experience when it came to murder.’

‘Well…’ Olive blushed. ‘Not especially, not personally. Nor love either, come to that. But I’ve worked, well, consulted with the police on a few cases and I do recall Hu–Detective Dixon saying that love and money were the two main motives for murder.’

‘That makes sense, I suppose,’ Mr Bennett agreed. ‘In which case it might be worth trying to track down this young Newnham student anyway and seeing what light she might be able to shed on it all.’

‘Yes.’ Olive nodded. ‘Yes, I was just thinking exactly the same thing.’

Chapter Five

‘And how exactly do you intend to interrogate the entire first year cohort of Newnham College?’ Millicent absently flicked through a copy of  The Mysterious Death at Styles. ‘You can’t exactly hold an assembly in the hall. What will you do, bribe them all with batches of almond croissants?’

The friends had decamped to One More Chapter to help Blythe package special deliveries which she’d then cycle around Cambridge delivering by hand. Olive and Millicent usually accompanied her on these trips, especially when the weather was pleasant and, in the height of summer, Olive brought leftovers from the café along so they could picnic on Grantchester Meadows or Jesus Green or Midsummer Common, depending on which part of town they ended up.

This evening though, they weren’t getting much work done.

‘I don’t know,’ Olive admitted as she slipped another copy of the same novel - it was Blythe’s book club choice of the month - into an envelope and sealed it shut. ‘It certainly won’t be easy. And I don’t know the porters at Newnham, so it’ll be a lot harder gaining entry. By the way, I’ve brought a batch of lavender biscuits so we give them a treat along with the book.’

‘Thank you.’ Blythe smiled. ‘You’re a marvel. Though, at this rate…’ She gazed at the stacks of books scattered all around them. ‘I’m not sure those biscuits won’t be stale by the time we’re done.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Olive picked up another envelope, determined to double her efforts. ‘I’m a little distracted. It’s just, I’m so sure this boy, Jack, was murdered but if we don’t find some evidence soon then the police will put him and the case to rest without justice being done.’ She sighed. ‘And it sounded like he was such a nice boy too, not like a lot of these entitled public school students who’ll hold court in the café giving their friends - and anyone within a fifty foot radius - their invaluable opinions on the state of the nation.’

‘While protesting against the entry of women to their colleges because, of course, our teeny tiny brains are too emotional to deal with anything more than raising babies and tidying homes.’ Millicent snapped her book shut with a little more force than necessary. ‘When I was a girl their fathers were arguing against giving us the vote, wearing black armbands when women were finally admitted to lectures, yet they’re still excluded from every college excepting Newnham and Girton… And they say this is the age of women’s lib and look how far we’ve come.’ She snorted. ‘What do they take us for?’

‘Twits,’ Blythe said. ‘With baby brains, literal and figurative, just as you said.’

‘True enough,’ Olive agreed. ‘But what am I going to do?’

Dropping another envelope onto the pile, she reached out to rub the soft fur between Biscuit’s eyebrows, as she often did when seeking inspiration. The spaniel was always close at hand, never leaving Olive’s side unless her mistress entered a place that prohibited dogs. Biscuit even joined the book deliveries, sitting in Olive’s bike basket with her tongue lolling out and the wind blowing back her silky ears, yapping with delight at the adventure.

‘Just turn up at the college,’ Millicent suggested. ‘You can make up some excuse to get past the porters easily enough, then start asking around the students and see if you can find the boy’s girlfriend. The whole town is abuzz with the accident, it won’t be hard to strike up conversations on the subject without arousing suspicions.’

‘I guess so.’ Olive nodded, still stroking Biscuit’s head. ‘It’s certainly worth a shot.’

‘So, um, how was Mr Bennett?’ Millicent asked, innocently. ‘Is he well again?’

‘Again?’ Olive frowned. ‘What do you mean? He seemed perfectly fine to me.’

Millicent gave a slight shrug. ‘He had a nasty cold last week, so I just-’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Blythe exclaimed. ‘You’re sweet on him, aren’t you? You do know he’s a married man.’

‘Of course I do,’ Millicent said. ‘And I am not sweet on him. Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘If I know anything about anything,’ Blythe said. ‘It’s love. And you most certainly are.’

‘Stop teasing her,’ Olive laughed. ‘And I don’t blame you if you are, Millicent. Mr Bennett is a lovely man. Kind, thoughtful and handsome too. What’s not to like?’

‘Yes,’ Millicent agreed. ‘He’s perfectly nice but I’m not in love with him. We, um, courted a long time ago that’s all. Before he met Elsie, before I met the cad. In another life.’

‘Hold on!’ Blythe sat up, momentarily abandoning the books. ‘You never told us any of this before. Come now, I need all the gossip. Details. Spill.’

Millicent laughed, but her smile was wistful. ‘There’s nothing to tell. We were together a while, then we weren’t. That’s all. No bad feelings, no broken hearts. Just friends.’

Blythe and Olive exchanged a look.

‘Likely story,’ Blythe said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I think you’re holding out on us, Millicent. I think it was a tempestuous love affair, complete with smashed hearts and years of silent longing and-’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Millicent cut her off. ‘You should write romance novels with that overactive imagination of yours. Really.’

Olive smiled. ‘So, who wants to come with me?’

‘Come with you where?’ Her friends asked in unison.

‘Newnham College,’ Olive said. ‘As soon as we’ve delivered these books and biscuits, of course.’

‘Tonight?’ Blythe frowned. ‘Won’t it be a little late? Shouldn’t we wait till tomorrow?’

‘We can’t afford to wait,’ Olive said. ‘Or the police will close the case and then it’ll be impossible to get them to reopen it. Not without any physical evidence, which we’ll never get. Uncovering the truth through confession or incrimination is the best we can hope for and for that, we need to act fast.’

‘Alright,’ Blythe said. ‘Tonight it is. In which case, we’d better crack on with stuffing these envelopes.’

Chapter Six

Olive, Blythe and Millicent parked their bikes against the dark red brick of Newnham College’s walls. The leafy green road flanked with chestnut trees was one of Olive’s favourites and she often took Biscuit walking behind the backs of the colleges and following the winding path of the River Cam.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ Olive said, scooping Biscuit out of her bicycle basket. ‘How are we getting in?’

‘I thought you were the maker of plans in this scenario,’ Blythe said. ‘You’re the one so intent on solving this mystery, after all. We’re just along for moral support. ’

‘I’ve thought of something,’ Millicent said, hitching her cloth bag into her arms. ‘You just leave this to me.’

‘Fantastic.’ Olive breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Fine by me. Lead the way.’

Olive and Blythe followed Millicent, scurrying behind as she strode towards the college, through the open gate and into the Porter’s Lodge.

‘Good evening,’ Millicent declared in strident tones as she entered. ‘I’ve brought a delivery for the Principal. She placed a sewing order this afternoon.’

Two porters sat behind the desk, both nursing cups of tea. One nodded. Neither got up. Which was fortunate, since it meant they couldn’t see Biscuit silently circling Olive’s ankles.

‘Very well, just leave it here,’ he said. ‘We’ll be sure she gets it.’

Millicent shook her head. ‘I promised to deliver it personally. She needs me to explain the specifics of the cross stitch, catch stitch, blanket stitch and slip stitch. She also -’

‘Alright, alright.’ The porter raised his hand. ‘Go on then. The Principal’s lodgings are through the second quad, past the fountain and at the end of the rose garden.’

‘Thank you.’ Millicent smiled. ‘I shall return within an hour or so, depending on how many stitches she wants to -’

‘As you wish,’ the porter interrupted. ‘I know once you ladies get talking there’s not much that stops you.’

Millicent’s smile tightened but she said nothing, only gave a perfunctory nod and started to walk on. Blythe, Olive and Biscuit hurried after her.

‘Hold on.’ Now the porter stood. ‘And where do you think you two are going?’

They stopped. Olive turned, fixing a winning smile to her face. ‘We’re the assistants,’ she said quickly. ‘We hold the threads.’

The porter frowned then, clearly not wanting to display his ignorance, waved his hand to dismiss them. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

‘“We hold the threads”?’ Blythe giggled, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Where on earth did you get that from?’

‘Shush!’ Olive nudged her. ‘It was the best I could come up with under pressure.’

‘Hurry up, you two,’ Millicent hissed. ‘Before they realise we’re talking nonsense.’

Still giggling, Olive and Blythe scampered on.

Halfway across the first quad, they were stopped by the sounds of chatter and laughter drifting out of an open window and across the lawn. A long row of illuminated windows ran along the nearest wall and, in the midst of them, a door.

‘Let’s go and see what’s going on,’ Olive suggested. ‘If those are students, they sound like the chatty sort.’

‘They sound like the drunk sort,’ Blythe said.

‘Even better.’ Olive smiled. ‘Come on Biscuit, best paw forward.’

Following the cobbled path towards a door, Olive took the lead and paused only briefly at the door to read the small wooden sign drilled into the wall: The Iris Bar.

‘We’re in luck,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the bar. And they are definitely drunk.’

Pushing open the door, Olive slid into the room, immediately followed by Biscuit, Millicent and Blythe. They hung back together in the corner, gazing out at the small room crowded with clutches of leather chairs around short tables and flanked by a bar at one end, considering their best approach.

‘I know you!’ A young woman a few metres away, sat forward in her chair and raised aloft the glass of red wine she was holding. ‘You’re the cake lady!’

In response, the last words echoed through the room: “Cake lady, cake lady, cake lady!” As the rest of the group – about a dozen students in total – joined the chorus.

The first young woman stood and walked towards Olive, who shrank back against the wall, casting desperate glances at her friends who shrugged helplessly.

‘Cake lady.’ The young woman, sporting a tweed skirt and matching jacket, along with a tight bun of bright blonde hair, reached out her hand. ‘Arabella Fitzgerald. Welcome to our den of iniquity.’

This evoked ripples of giggles through the small crowd.

‘Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald.’ Olive shook the student’s hand. ‘Olive Crisp. And this,’ - she nodded nervously at her friends in turn - ‘is Millicent Burrows and Blythe Loveday.’ Anxious not to be left out, Biscuit gave a sharp bark. ‘Sorry. Along with Biscuit too. It’s a pleasure to be here.’

‘And why are you all here? If that’s not an impolite inquiry.’

‘Not at all,’ Olive said, stalling for time. ‘It’s a perfectly polite, and indeed entirely understandable, inquiry. So…’

The young woman, who’d stopped listening to the answer, cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you have any cake?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you have any cake with you? Is that why you’re here? To bring us cake?’

A hearty cheer went up.

‘Well, um, I…’ Olive opened her bag. Unfortunately, the leftover batch of lavender biscuits had already been distributed to Blythe’s book group. But, fortunately, Olive also never went anywhere without a stash of treats secreted about her person. Just in case. One never knew, after all, when one might be on the edge of having an empty stomach. It was a risk she was not willing to take.

‘Macarons!’ Olive exclaimed, triumphantly, as she pulled a small box from her bag, followed by another. ‘I have macarons!’

She heard both Millicent and Blythe breathe audible sighs of relief.

The student closed one eye. ‘What flavour.’

Olive opened one box. ‘Chocolate,’ she pronounced. ‘And vanilla.’

‘Chocolate!’ The student broadcast to her fellows. ‘She’s got chocolate!’

Another cheer erupted and Olive hastily handed over the boxes before the crowd turned wild. The gaggle of delighted, squealing, slightly drunk girls crowded around Arabella to grab at the treats. When the boxes were empty, Arabella turned back to Olive.

‘I don’t suppose…’

‘Sorry,’ Olive said quickly. ‘That’s all I have. You’ve cleaned me out.’

‘Oh.’ Arabella sighed. ‘What a shame.’ She glanced back at the bar, the shelves of wines and spirits. ‘Well, I suppose we still have plenty of tipple.’

‘Indeed.’ Olive nodded, rather wishing she had a glass in hand to better cope with the unravelling situation. ‘So, I was wondering… I’m sure you heard about the dreadful accident at King’s…’

‘Oh, yes, of course!’ Arabella put her palm to her lips, suddenly stricken. ‘Terrible, terrible thing. We all knew Jack here, lovely, lovely boy.’

‘You did?’ Olive asked, suddenly alert. Beside her, she felt Millicent and Blythe stiffen. Even Biscuit pricked up her ears.

‘Absolutely, he was a regular visitor to the bar,’ she said. ‘Came over most weekends. Much preferred our college to his, unsurprisingly.’ Arabella laughed again, a light, kind laugh. ‘I think sometimes he wished he was a girl so he might have joined us at Newnham instead of King’s.’

Olive frowned. ‘Why was he so unhappy there?’

Arabella mirrored Olive’s frown. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? A sensitive chap like Jack could never be happy in a place like that, so full of bullies and bores - have you never had dinner in Hall there? It’s like the Houses of Parliament. A riotous brawl. Have you ever been?’

Olive shook her head.

‘Well, I have, sorry to say. Father’s the MP for South Herts. Anyway, it’s a frightful place, full of men shouting at each other like they’re still in the school playground. It’s a wonder they get around to running the country at all, really.’ She sighed. ‘They’re a bunch of bullish savages, the King’s chaps, just like most of the all-male colleges.’

‘And did they bully Jack?’ Blythe asked, stepping forward slightly.

Olive swallowed a smile, remembering how Blythe, despite her protestations, never liked to be left out of anything for too long.

In response, Arabella laughed again. But this time it was tinged with bitterness.

‘Did they bully Jack?’ She echoed, as if this was by far the most idiotic question ever asked of a person. ‘Of course they bloody did. Well, the public school chaps anyway, they picked on anyone who wasn’t one of them. And they hated the fact there were so many more coming in – blamed Harold Wilson, Labour government trying to make everything equal. Anyway…’ She shrugged as she trailed off.

‘So why was Jack climbing with them?’ Blythe asked. ‘Why would he go with boys who’d been so mean to him?’

By now the rest of the girls had drifted off back to their chairs and wine glasses. But Olive noticed that one girl who sat far across the room continued to fix her gaze on them, as if she wanted to join the conversation but didn’t have the courage. Her long brown hair was pulled into plaits and her rapidly blinking eyes framed by tiny, round glasses; she held the perpetually anxious look of a mouse hiding from a cat.

‘I’m not sure,’ Arabella admitted. ‘Perhaps he was trying to fit in. Perhaps they dared him. Jack was a nice boy but still a boy; I doubt he could resist a dare.’

‘Do you think it’s possible his fall wasn’t an accident?’ Olive asked. ‘Do you think one of them could have pushed him?’

If the measure of Arabella’s incredulity at the stupidity of Blythe’s question had been high, now it went off the scale.

‘Are you – is that a serious question?’ She gaped at Olive, for the first time letting the mask of her good breeding slip. ‘Of course he was pushed. What do you think? That it was an accident?’ She said this final word with such venomous disbelief that Biscuit emitted a short, nervous bark.

‘No,’ Olive said quickly. ‘No, I don’t. But that’s what the police think. And that’s why I’m here.’

At the mention of the police, Arabella rolled her eyes.

‘Imbeciles. The constabulary have all the insight and imagination of a fish. They’re just like politicians; they believe only what’s put in front of them and they’re infinitely corruptible.’

Olive raised an eyebrow. Here, she thought, was someone with daddy issues. Making a non-committal noise in response, she hesitated to agree, feeling fairly certain that Detective Dixon wasn’t a simpleton and dearly hoped he wasn’t corrupt. Still, Arabella was proving very helpful and loquacious and the last thing Olive wanted to do was shut her down.

‘So,’ Blythe stepped in. ‘If you’re sure it wasn’t an accident, why don’t you go to the police?’

Arabella snorted. ‘And what good would that do? You think they’ll listen to my word, which is pure speculation, against the word of six eye witnesses?’

‘Even when those eye witnesses might have been in cahoots?’ Millicent interjected. ‘Don’t you think they will–’

‘Even when those eye witnesses absolutely were in cahoots,’ Arabella clarified. ‘Have you heard of the Loki and Pan Society?’

‘No.’ Olive shook her head, her pulse starting to race. ‘What’s that?’

‘One of their clubs, like The Bullingdon Club in Oxford, the source of many a scandal and–’

‘Oh!’ Blythe’s eyes widened. ‘Weren’t they in the papers a few years ago, accused of assaulting those poor waitresses?’

‘Yes,’ Arabella said. ‘Except, of course, it never went to court and they were never charged.’

‘Why not?’ Millicent asked.

Arabella rolled her eyes. ‘Aren’t you listening? Don’t you realise who the fathers of these men are? Politicians, barristers, judges… Who’s in the business of prosecuting their own sons?’

Olive glanced again at the girl sitting across the room and, sure enough, she was still gazing at them. But, as soon as Olive caught her gaze, the girl looked away.

‘These are leaders of the Empire,’ Arabella went on. ‘And, believe me, they’ll have done even worse in their own day and got away with it. Rich men get away with everything. Did you not know that?’

Millicent dropped her eyes to the floor, embarrassed.

‘So, tell me more about this club,’ Olive persisted. ‘Was Jack a member?’

‘No!’ Arabella exclaimed. ‘Of course not. Only entitled arseholes belong to clubs like those, and Jack was quite the opposite.’

‘Right.’ Olive nodded. ‘Of course, I just…’

‘They have a motto,’ Arabella said. ‘“Malum Vita”. Do you know what that means?’

Olive shook her head. ‘No.’

‘It’s Latin,’ Arabella said. ‘It means “mischief is life” or “life is mischief”. One or the other, I can’t quite recall. I’m not a Classics scholar. Anyway, it meant that they loved going about causing mischief. Taking cats off the street and putting them in students’ rooms, that sort of thing. Once they even stole a farmer’s sheep and released it into the grounds of St John’s. How on earth they got it past the porters, I’ve no idea. But you see why climbing up college rooftops would appeal.’

‘Yes,’ Olive said. ‘I see.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking but how do you know all this? Did Jack tell you? Are you – were you – his girlfriend?’

‘His girlfriend?’ Arabella exclaimed. ‘No, of course not. I…’ Suddenly, she looked embarrassed. ‘I was seeing – only for a few weeks, during which time he quickly revealed himself for the absolute reprobate he was – the club’s leader, Rupert Middleton. He loved to brag about their escapades at the drop of a hat. Oh, they once stole a policeman’s hat – helmet, along with a whole smoked salmon and a whole sack full of cats and locked them in the college library. Apparently they were copying a scene from a book or something equally ridiculous, I don’t know… Anyway, it was the sort of stupid, pointless nonsense Rupert loved to get up to. Elected members all wear diamond cufflinks, or some such, the gems stolen from a necklace belonging to the first wife of Henry VIII by the founding member. Bunch of bloody idiots.’

‘And you think that poor Jack got involved in their antics,’ Blythe said. ‘And then they used that as an opportunity to kill him? But why? What do you think their motive might have been?’

‘That I don’t know,’ Arabella admitted. ‘I know they didn’t like what he represented; the infiltration of the lower orders, the “pollution” of their precious elitist institution, the purity of which they were desperately fighting against being diluted by the watered-down blood of the working classes. King’s used to be populated entirely by Etonians in the old days and Rupert would’ve loved to continue excluding anyone but those just like him if he could’ve, but times change and–’

‘And you think that’d be cause enough for him to kill?’ Olive interrupted. ‘Truly?’

Arabella gave a slight shrug. ‘Perhaps. Look, I’m not saying Rupert planned it all in advance like some dastardly murder plot, but I’ve also no doubt that events could’ve unfolded while they were up there, things said in the heat of the moment – diatribes about the plague of the working classes, or whatever – so one of them shoved him…’

‘And do you think any of them would speak to me?’ Olive asked. ‘Do you think there’s any chance that one of the six, who didn’t do anything wrong, might tell the truth?’

‘Talk to you?’ Arabella gave another snort of laughter. ‘You think one of Rupert’s fellow club members is going to rat on him? Really? No offence, but that’s the most foolish, naïve notion I’ve ever heard.’

Olive sighed. She didn’t much like this arrogant, opinionated young woman yet she could only imagine, if the girls were this bad, what the boys would be like. And how they would treat her. And this girl was at least trying to be helpful, the boys would be hostile from the start.

‘Do you know Jack’s girlfriend?’ Olive tried another tack. ‘Perhaps she could tell us something that might help, even if she doesn’t–’

‘Girlfriend?’ Arabella’s incredulity reached, if that were possible, new heights. ‘Jack didn’t have a girlfriend. He was a homosexual.’

Olive blinked. Biscuit barked.

‘Oh.’ Olive blinked again. ‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Am I sure?’ Arabella echoed. ‘You think I can’t tell when a man’s attracted to women or not?’

Olive glanced across the room again at the silent, staring girl. She was getting rather fed up with Arabella and was increasingly tempted to leave her and try approaching the other young woman instead. Just because he wasn’t attracted to you, Olive thought, doesn’t mean he wasn’t attracted to women at all.

‘I know what you mean,’ Blythe was saying, when Olive came out of her reverie. ‘I’m glad you mentioned it, honestly, since it hadn’t properly occurred to me. There’s a particular man who comes into the shop and, no matter how friendly I am, he simply never looks at me that way. And I was starting to wonder if I’d said something…’

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Olive addressed Arabella, before glancing down at her dog. ‘Wait here, Biscuit, I won’t be long.’

Leaving her friends chatting with their slightly obnoxious informant, Olive hurried across the room towards the reclusive student - slow enough that the girl wouldn’t get spooked but quick enough that she wouldn’t have a chance to escape. The girl started to stand by the time Olive reached the halfway point, but Olive caught her just before she could scuttle away.

‘Please,’ Olive huffed, a little out of breath. ‘I-I only wanted to ask you one question.’

The girl shook her head, the long plaits swinging against her shoulders.

‘Please,’ Olive repeated. ‘You might know something that could help me - the police catch whoever killed Jack. You want that, don’t you?’

The girl only stared at her, saying nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ Olive tried again. ‘I might be wrong but I thought… you’re, you were Jack’s girl–his friend, weren’t you?’

Olive waited for her to speak, but the girl shook her head again.

‘I’m not,’ she said, at last. ‘I’m not who you think I am. And the boy who was killed, I didn’t know him.’

Olive frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

It clearly wasn’t in the girl’s nature to make an arrogant retort, so she merely shook her head for a third time.

‘I didn’t know him,’ she said again. ‘So I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.’

She turned to walk away but, just before she did so she met Olive’s gaze.

Olive didn’t need her cards to know that the girl was lying.

Chapter Seven

‘So, whatever Rupert’s motive – since he sounds like the ringleader – it wasn’t love,’ Blythe said. ‘Or lust. Or whatever it is young men mostly feel towards young women nowadays.’

‘The same as whatever older men feel,’ Millicent sniffed. ‘They’re no different. Same deceptive species.’

‘Oh, Millicent,’ Olive said sympathetically. ‘I might not be the best advocate for love, but we’ve really got to find you a nice man so you can stop hating the whole lot of them. A lovely, kind, loyal one. That’s what we need.’

‘Good luck,’ Millicent retorted. ‘You’re more likely to find a unicorn or a flying pig.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Blythe chastised. ‘There are good men everywhere. What about … Churchill? He was never unfaithful to his wife. Or Paul Newman. And he’s the handsomest man in the world, he could have any woman he wants. But he doesn’t.’

‘How do you know?’ Millicent said. ‘He might be knee deep in women and he’s just never been caught. You only want to believe he’s faithful and truthful because you’re a hopeless romantic.’

‘And you’re a hopeless cynic,’ Blythe said. ‘That doesn't mean you’re right.’

‘How about you both stop bickering,’ Olive said. ‘And focus on the matter at hand.’

Instead of cycling back into town, the friends had decided to push their bikes down the path that ran alongside the road behind Clare College, King’s and Trinity, affording them sweeping views across the fields and the river and the backs of the university buildings that stood proud and majestic against the bright blue skies.

‘Which is what, exactly?’ Millicent asked. ‘I’m afraid I’m losing track.’

‘How on earth we’re going to prove that one of those boys pushed Jack to his death if we’ve got no physical evidence, no honest witnesses and no one who’ll give us any information that might enable us to persuade the police to treat his death as suspicious.’

‘Perhaps you could use alternative powers of persuasion on the investigating detective,’ Blythe suggested with a wink. ‘I’ll bet you could get him to change his mind.’

‘Stop teasing,’ Olive said. ‘It’s not helping.’ She glanced back at the spaniel who had scampered off the path and now had her nose in a rabbit hole. ‘Biscuit, leave that alone!’

Obediently, Biscuit returned to her mistress and began trotting alongside her again.

‘Any more of that and you’ll be back in my basket,’ Olive said softly. ‘I’m not giving you a bath when we get home.’

‘You could interrogate the witnesses,’ Millicent suggested. ‘One of them might let something slip.’

‘Nice idea,’ Olive said. ‘But I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking. Those boys will be fiercely loyal to each other and I’ve got nothing to offer to break those bonds except a lifetime supply of lavender biscuits and, somehow, I don’t think that’ll quite cut it. And anyway they’re probably all rich enough to buy my café and everything in it, so–’

‘What about…?’ Blythe winked. ‘You are a woman, after all.’

Olive’s burst of laughter was so sudden and sharp that it startled Biscuit, who started yapping. ‘Now, of all the absurdly ridiculous things you’ve ever said, that is far and away the most patently, certifiably crazy.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you do anything,’ Blythe protested. ‘Only that you flutter your eyelashes and play dumb, they’ll eat that right up. And then, when their defences are down–’

‘B,’ Olive interrupted her friend. ‘I’m old enough to be their mother. That’s all they’ll see when they look at me. So, no, I’m…’

As they turned the corner onto Silver Street, Olive trailed off. For, walking towards them was Detective Dixon. Spotting Olive, he smiled and waved.

‘Well,’ Blythe whispered. ‘King’s College boys might be immune to your feminine charms, but here’s someone who most definitely isn’t.’

‘Shush!’ Olive hissed as the detective approached. ‘He’ll hear you!’

‘Why don’t we leave them be?’ Millicent mounted her bike. ‘I’m quite sure Olive will do much better without our moral support on this occasion, don’t you?’

‘Thank you, Millicent.’ Olive gave her friend a grateful smile. ‘Breakfast tomorrow?’

Millicent nodded. ‘See you at the café.’ She glanced at Blythe as she pushed off from the curb. ‘Come with me, you mischief maker – you know, you’d be a perfect candidate for their Pan and Loki Club. I’ve never known anyone more mischievous.’

‘What about Mr Bennett?’ Blythe interrupted, following behind Millicent on her bicycle. ‘I’m quite certain he’s been faithful to his wife. He’s no Paul Newman, but still you can’t deny that he’s one of the good ones.’

‘Yes.’ Olive snatched the end of her friend’s reply, her voice rather wistful, on the wind. ‘In his case, I do you’re right.’

‘Well, fancy bumping into you here.’ Detective Dixon grinned as he reached her. ‘I swung by the café earlier today but you’d closed early.’

‘Only fifteen minutes,’ Olive said, a little defensively. ‘I had, um, things to do. Deliveries to make.’ Although, it had occurred to her that, in the absence of a daughter, she really ought to hire a girl to help her in the café if she was going to spend so much time solving mysteries.

‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Deliveries.’

‘That’s right,’ Olive iterated, starting to feel like she was in a police cell under interrogation. ‘I make personal deliveries from time to time. This evening it was for Blythe’s book club.’ She was about to go on but remembered Hugo himself once telling her that liars often betrayed themselves by giving too many details, so she shut up.

‘Blythe’s book club, eh?’

Olive fiddled with the fraying leather on the left handlebar of her bike. ‘There’s no harm in that, is there?’

‘No, of course not,’ Hugo pinned her with his amused gaze. ‘So long as you weren’t doing anything else like, I don’t know, pursuing lines of inquiry… Investigating a crime which wasn’t a crime.’

‘So you say,’ Olive blurted out, then instantly regretted it.

‘Yes, I do say,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Because I’ve interviewed all the witnesses and spoken with the Dean and examined the scene and because twenty years of murder investigations tells me that this was an accident. And what, pray tell, gives you the idea that it wasn’t?’

Olive opened her mouth. My tarot cards, she wanted to say. Oh, and the claims of a rather obnoxious Newnham student. Then she closed it again.

‘Instinct,’ she said instead. ‘I think one of them pushed him. Everyone knows he wasn’t well liked and those Night Climber boys – who were all Etonians and members of some society called the Loki and Pan Club or something and went about wearing stolen diamonds – didn’t want him at King’s, so-’

‘And how do you know all this?’ Hugo’s smile dropped.

‘Well, I, um…’ Olive shrugged. ‘It’s common knowledge apparently. My customers have been chatting about it all day; it’s the latest scandal and everyone loves to gossip, don’t they? And, of course, I can’t help overhearing.’

‘Of course.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And you wouldn’t be, um, contributing to this chatter, would you? Or soliciting opinions from interested parties?’

‘No,’ Olive said, a little too quickly. ‘No, of course not.’

The flicker of amusement returned to the detective’s eyes and he pinned her with his gaze. Olive tried to look away, but she couldn’t. For a second she imagined him reaching out to take hold of her shoulders and pull her into a tight embrace; her fingers drifted up to her lips as she felt the touch of his kiss and a shiver ran through her.

‘Miss Crisp? Miss Crisp? Are you quite alright?’

‘What?’ Olive returned abruptly to reality and instantly started to blush as she realised what he’d witnessed her thinking. Thank goodness he wasn’t able to see those thoughts.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I was only thinking about, about…’

He looked at her quizzically, waiting.

Just then, Biscuit came to the rescue and started barking. Relieved, Olive glanced down at her dog.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I need to pick up treats on my way home. We’ve run out and Biscuit can get quite disobedient without her treats.’

Biscuit wined at this, offended at having her character maligned, even for such a good cause as protecting her mistress’ dignity.

‘I know,’ Olive glanced down at Biscuit, offering silent apologies. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t forget.’

‘But, I believe all the shops are shut now, aren’t they?’ Hugo frowned. ‘So I don’t think you can…’

‘Oh, it’s not from a shop,’ Olive interrupted, as the idea occurred to her. ‘I pick them up from my neighbour. She, um, makes them by hand. Special dog treats with, um, biscuits and bacon bits.’

The detective’s frown deepened. ‘Couldn’t you just make those yourself?’

Olive gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, of course I could. And I do. But Biscuit prefers these so I let her have them every now and then, on special occasions.’

‘And today is a special occasion?’

Olive wiped her brow. ‘I’m starting to feel like I’m under interrogation. Has there been a crime involving cake?’

Hugo laughed. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. But if there is, don’t worry you’ll be my first suspect.’

‘That’s good to know.’ Olive smiled. ‘I’m glad I’ll be top of your list.’

What are you doing? She told herself. Stop flirting with the police officer!

‘But, of course,’ Hugo said. ‘I respect you far too much to put you anywhere else.’

Feeling suddenly flustered and not trusting what she might say next, and realising that the longer she stayed to chat the more likely it was she’d make a fool of herself, Olive bent down to scoop up Biscuit and place her in the bicycle basket. She was about to set off when she realised that amid all this flirtation, she’d forgotten to ask the most important question of all.

‘Have you closed the case yet?’

‘What - oh, the one you seem so convinced is murder,’ Hugo said. ‘The boy who tragically fell from the roof of King’s College.’

‘Or was pushed,’ Olive added. ‘Yes, that one.’

‘No.’ Hugo shook his head. ‘No, not yet. The coroner is ruling on Friday, but I can tell you now, without any other evidence to the contrary, he will certainly conclude that it was accidental.’

Olive sighed.

Three days. She had three days to prove otherwise.

Which meant she had to act fast. Fortunately, what the detective had just said had given Olive a flash of inspiration, one she needed to act on straightaway.

‘Alright,’ she said, mounting her bicycle. ‘Well, it was lovely bumping into you like this, but I’d better be off. It’s late and I need my beauty sleep. I’m not getting any younger!’

She gave him what she hoped was a wryly self-deprecating smile, but his gaze remained serious.

‘You certainly don’t,’ Hugo muttered. ‘You’re dangerously beautiful enough already.’

He spoke so softly, his lips barely moving, his mouth barely open, that Olive couldn’t be at all certain whether or not she’d imagined his words altogether.

‘Don’t be in such a rush to get to bed,’ he said, much louder. ‘That you forget those dog treats.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Olive chastised herself for having already forgotten her initial excuse. ‘D-don’t worry, Biscuit won’t let me forget her. So, on that note, I’d, um, I’d better go. Have a good evening. See you soon.’

Hugo raised his hand. ‘See you soon,’ he echoed.

Olive didn’t look back until she’d cycled to the end of Silver Street. And, when she did, she saw that Detective Dixon was still gazing after her. She was seized by a sudden impulse to turn and cycle back to him, to ask if he’d really just said what she thought he’d said, but instead Olive turned, reluctantly, onto King’s Parade and he disappeared from view.

Olive kept cycling, past the turning onto Bene’t Street, past King’s College, until she reached the end of the road, then she took a left past the Senate House and headed back towards Newnham College. She only hoped that when she arrived she’d be able to find Arabella again and persuade her to carry out this rather maverick and somewhat dangerous idea.

Chapter Eight

‘So, you want me to seduce my old boyfriend? Someone I despise with every fibre of my being, in the hopes of getting him to slip up and tell me something that might incriminate him. Is that right?’

‘Well…’ Olive hesitated. She’d managed to slip past the porters when they’d disappeared to make cups of tea and mercifully found Arabella still in the bar. ‘Not “seduce” exactly, so much as charm.’

‘Charm?’ Arabella grimaced, as if the notion revolted her. ‘How exactly do you want me to “charm” him?’

‘I don’t know...’ Olive gave a slight shrug, feeling increasingly uncomfortable at what she was asking this young woman to do. Rupert was clearly a cad and might very well be a killer; she didn’t like Arabella but she didn’t want to put her in danger. ‘What do you think? Might you consider meeting with him? I could come with you. I mean, I could be waiting outside his room, or some such, ready to burst in as soon as you called me.’

Arabella laughed. ‘That all sounds delightfully dramatic but entirely unnecessary. I’ve got nothing to fear from Rupert Middleton. He might be a stain on the handkerchief of humanity, but he’s a total pussycat too. He’d never lift a finger against me.’

Olive frowned. ‘But… You said you thought he was the most likely one to have pushed Jack from the roof. How can you say-?’

‘Yes,’ Arabella agreed. ‘But that’s very different. Giving someone a sharp shove and letting gravity do the rest - and with your gang right behind you as backup - what does that take? But hurting me, when we’re alone together…’ She shook her head. ‘He never would.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then,’ Olive ventured. ‘Does that mean you’ll do it?’

Arabella sighed. ‘What’s the point? Even if he confesses everything to me – which he won’t – it’d just be my word against his. And he dumped me, so I’m biased. My word will mean less than nothing to the police. You understand that, don’t you?’

Olive’s spirits fell. Reluctant to admit that she hadn’t considered this, she hesitated. ‘Yes, of course I do. But what if… what if…?’

Arabella frowned. ‘What if what?’

And then inspiration struck. ‘My friend Blythe has a cinecamera. Her mother used it to take film reels of her sister’s wedding. We could use that to record his confession. And then it wouldn’t matter if they believed you or not, because it would be his own word against himself.’

Arabella nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a fine idea. But it’s based on the notion that he’ll say anything to incriminate himself, which he won’t. Anyway, he knows I despise him, why would he talk to me?’

‘Flatter him,’ Olive suggested. ‘From what you said it sounds like he thinks pretty highly of himself, and that sort of person is usually very responsive to fawning. I’m sure you can manipulate him into meeting with you easily enough. And, as for getting him to confess, I find that alcohol usually does the trick.’

‘He does like a drink or five,’ Arabella admitted. ‘That part of it certainly wouldn’t be hard. But I can’t bear the idea of fawning. It’ll be humiliating.’

‘Only at first,’ Olive said. ‘But then, if it works, you’ll be the one responsible for putting him in prison for the rest of his life, or a good portion of it. So surely it’ll be worth it.’

Arabella shrugged. ‘That’s only if it works. If it doesn’t, then it’s just humiliating.’

‘I suppose so,’ Olive admitted. ‘And I’m sorry about that. But isn’t it worth the risk?’

Olive looked at Arabella, desperately hoping that this appeal – offering her the chance to fulfil her civic duty or the opportunity for revenge – would win her over. Yet Arabella’s face remained inscrutable as she considered the options and Olive couldn’t tell which way she would go.

Chapter Nine

‘Tell me again why you need my mother’s cinecamera?’ Blythe asked.

‘Because I’m setting a trap,’ Olive explained. ‘And if Rupert walks into it I need proof.’

‘So you’re going to film him?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

Blythe frowned. ‘But I don’t understand. Surely he won’t confess if you’re filming him.’

Olive rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not, but he won’t know I’m filming him, will he? Because I’ll be in hiding.’

‘In hiding?’ Blythe’s frown deepened. ‘In hiding where?’

‘I’m not certain yet,’ Olive said. ‘We haven’t decided on the best location - somewhere private so he feels comfortable talking and, um, incriminating himself without being overheard. Probably in his room.’

‘His room!’ Blythe exclaimed. ‘And how on earth do you plan on breaking into his room and hiding without getting seen or caught?’

‘I don’t know,’ Olive admitted. ‘I haven’t thought out the finer details yet.’

‘The finer details?!’ Blythe shrieked, startling Biscuit, who sat between them on the bookshop floor, waiting for someone to suggest a walk. So far, with all the endless chatter, she’d been disappointed.

‘Olive, I love you,’ Blythe said. ‘I’d walk into a burning building after you, you know that. But this is crazy. It’ll never work. And you’ll probably end up going to prison for spying or something like that.’

Olive felt a flash of panic. Was that possible? Surely not. Perhaps she should try to find out. In an attempt to conceal her nerves, she smiled weakly. ‘Don’t be silly, B. I don’t think that’s a thing. I mean, I don’t work for the government. I’m just an amateur, not a real detective, so they can’t put me in front of a tribunal or fire me or anything like that.’

Blythe narrowed her eyes with suspicion. ‘You don’t even know what a tribunal is, do you?’

‘No,’ Olive admitted. ‘Not really. But, whatever it is, I won’t be subjected to it. Anyway, I’m not a criminal, I’m trying to catch a criminal. That’s a good thing, I won’t be punished for doing a good thing and I’m certainly not doing anything illegal - he’s the one who killed a boy, not me.’

‘Exactly!’ Blythe exclaimed, causing poor Biscuit to startle again. ‘Can you hear yourself? This person you want to spy on probably killed someone. Doesn’t that worry you? Aren’t you at all concerned that he might try to kill you.’

‘Oh, no.’ Olive shook her head. ‘No, no. Arabella assured me that he wasn’t the type to do something like that single-handedly. Or with a weapon - not that he has a weapon, so far as I know - but anyway, it’s very different to shoot a person, or stab them, versus simply giving them a quick shove off a roof.’

Blythe stared at her friend, wide-eyed with incredulity. ‘Olive, my dear, are you listening to yourself? You have no idea what kind of killer he is, or what kind of killer he might become. Perhaps he’s got the taste for it now and he’ll expand into other avenues - the first time of anything is the hardest after all. He might become a serial killer!’

Olive stared back at Blythe, her heart thudding. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s not going to happen, that’s utterly ludicrous…’ She trailed off, worrying she was protesting too much.

‘Is it?’ Blythe raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you be so sure?’

Chapter Ten

Am I crazy?  Olive wondered as she slipped a second batch of madeleines into the oven. Is Blythe right? Am I being stupidly naïve? It was certainly possible, of course, but even then Olive couldn’t see any way around it. Yes, attempting to record the confession of a killer wasn’t perhaps the wisest way to spend one’s time but what other choice did she have? In the absence of any physical evidence and in the face of no police support, her options were limited. And anyway, she’d be in the room with Arabella too. If Rupert went rogue, they could surely overpower him together. So long as he didn’t have a gun.

Olive swallowed nervously as she began arranging the Bakewell tarts on decorative cake stands. She’d made a selection of different jams: apple, elderflower and apricot. She planned on adding fig jam and pear jam (in addition to the traditional blackberry and raspberry) to the menu soon too, when the fruits came into season in late summer. Olive paused to bend down over the plate and inhale the scent of sugar which she always found to be exceedingly calming. Deciding she needed an extra dose of sweetness for breakfast this morning, Olive picked an apricot tart and set it on the plate beside her crumpets. Then, upon consideration, she added an elderflower tart for good measure.

Today was the day of the sting operation, or The Crazy Suicidal Spying Plan as Blythe was calling it (in a bid to scare Olive off doing it) and she needed all the fortification she could get.

Arabella had arranged to meet Rupert in his rooms that evening and, since no female visitors were allowed after nine o’clock, he would sneak her in through the back gate behind the chapel. It turned out, just as Olive had thought, that such was Rupert’s giant ego he hadn’t even questioned why his ex-girlfriend wanted to see him again. No doubt, he imagined that she’d be trying to win him back and, at the very least, he’d get one more chance to take her to bed again.

However, while this plan was all well and good, it didn’t account for how Olive would smuggle herself into Rupert’s room in advance of nine o’clock to hide in his wardrobe, or under his bed, or behind his sofa – whatever place presented itself as most auspicious and least painful – since she couldn’t very well ask him to sneak her in via the back gate. She wondered also how she would get into his room in the first place, since no doubt it’d be kept locked, and, if she managed to surmount this hurdle, how she would know when he’d be out so she wouldn’t get caught creeping in.

After giving all these questions a good deal of thought, and entertaining a fair amount of ridiculous notions and impossible scenarios, Olive had finally settled upon the undeniable fact that she would have to ask Mr Bennett for help.

It was the only way.

‘He’ll never do it,’ Blythe said. ‘Not in a million years.’

The three friends sat in the café eating leftovers for supper. Olive had flipped the “closed” sign on the door before confessing what she planned to do. She’d not told them until the last minute, knowing what their objections would be, but now she realised she had to. Just in case something went horribly wrong. If Rupert did end up killing her, she at least wanted her friends to be able to see justice done. It was too awful to imagine him getting away with two murders.

‘He might,’ Olive said, taking a thoughtful bite of a vanilla cream puff. ‘If I ask very nicely. And promise him free almond croissants and pots of Earl Grey tea every morning for the rest of his life.’

Millicent laughed. ‘Well, yes, that might swing the deal. But are you sure? He could lose his job over something like that.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Licking cream from her fingers, Olive shook her head, unable to even contemplate such a thing. ‘He’s been Head Porter for nearly forty years, they’d never fire him.’

‘What?’ Blythe’s eyes widened and she looked at Olive as if she was a certifiable idiot. ‘Of course they would! How naive are you? If he was caught slipping you into a student’s private room – to spy on him, no less – it’d be a violation of privacy, of civil rights, of…whatever. Plenty of things that could probably not only get him fired but also sent to prison or, at the very least, land him with a criminal record and render him unemployable. And no man in his sixties is going to risk his pension like that, no matter how delicious your almond croissants are.’

Millicent nodded, sadly. ‘Blythe’s right. Do you think the College would care about a mere porter, no matter how loyal and dedicated, if one of their students - the son of an alumni, no doubt, and probably a significant donor - kicked up a stink against him?’

‘But he wouldn’t be able to kick up a stink, would he,’ Olive said. ‘Not if he was imprisoned for murder. They wouldn’t care about the word of a murderer, even if we had broken into his room and hidden there. They’d just be relieved he’d been caught. And then they’d want to disassociate themselves from him as quickly as possible. Don’t you think? King’s College won’t want anyone to know they harboured a killer.’

‘Well,’ Millicent considered. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure you’re right about that at least. They wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole if he confessed to murder. But don’t forget, you don’t actually know for certain that he is a murderer. After all’ - she dropped to a whisper, not wanting to voice her dissent too loudly - ‘we can’t be absolutely sure that it wasn’t in fact an accident.’

‘What?’ Olive dropped the remainder of the cream puff to her plate. ‘What are you saying? The cards are never wrong, you know that!’

‘Well…’ Millicent ventured. ‘I know, I know they’ve never been wrong before. But you’re risking an awful lot on them being right this time. And what if they’re not? What if you get into that boy’s bedroom, putting George’s job on the line and, quite possibly, your own safety – to say nothing of your reputation – at risk, only to discover that you, that they, were wrong?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Olive snapped. ‘Come on B, back me up here. You know the cards are never wrong.’

Blythe, who’d been devouring a slice of lemon cheesecake, paused a moment to look up. ‘I agree with you, and I do believe that the poor boy was killed, but I don’t necessarily think that means it’s worth putting everything in jeopardy in order to prove it. What will it achieve, at the end of the day? It can’t bring him back. It can’t-’

‘Can’t bring him back?’ Olive echoed. ‘Can you hear yourself? I know it can’t bring him back, but you can’t let someone – an absolute cad and a frightful snob, by all accounts – get away with something like that. With murder. Can you?’

For a few moments, neither Blythe nor Millicent spoke. Then, at last, they both glanced up from their plates to exchange a silent but meaningful look. And, as so often happens with very old friends, an understanding passed between them which they mutually, but again silently, agreed that Blythe would speak their thoughts aloud.

‘We think you’re being cavalier and reckless,’ she said. ‘And we wish you’d just drop this whole regrettable business and let life return to normal. Men like Rupert Middleton, rich, powerful, influential men, have been getting away with murder, and worse, for centuries and, sadly, will continue to do so unless there’s a revolution and society is forever changed. And as we all know, that’s exceedingly unlikely and, probably, impossible. As Lord Acton said, “power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” So…’

‘But,’ Olive protested. ‘But that doesn’t mean we can–’

Blythe set down her fork and held up her hand. ‘But, even though we think this, you are our dearest and most beloved friend and we will always support you in everything you do–’

‘No matter how crazy it might be,’ Millicent finished.

Frowning, Olive looked from one to the other. Then she laughed. ‘I don’t know whether to be offended or touched,’ she said. ‘But, in the interests of friendship and justice, I’m going to go with the latter.’

‘Wise decision,’ Millicent said. ‘Now, if you’re really set on this path then I propose I come with you to talk to Geor – Mr Bennett – and see if I can’t persuade him to help. While Blythe stays behind to dog sit. I presume you’re not planning on taking Biscuit with you?’

At the mention of her name, Biscuit, who’d been laying under the table strategically catching crumbs, looked up and barked. Olive, meanwhile, exhaled a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be wonderful.’ She reached out across the table to take her friends’ hands. Tears filled her eyes. ‘I’m so grateful for you both. Really and truly, you’re the two most glorious blessings in my life.’

Biscuit barked again, this time in protest.

‘Oh, yes.’ Olive smiled. ‘And you too! My silly pup. How could I ever forget you?’

‘Alright then.’ Millicent squeezed Olive’s hand, then stood. ‘Let’s go. The students will be having dinner now, so it’s the perfect time to sneak into a bedroom without being caught.’

Olive nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Of course,’ Millicent said.

‘Anytime,’ Blythe said, her mouth once more full of cheesecake. ‘And next time I want to break the law or do something foolishly dangerous, I don’t want to hear any objection from you, alright?’

Olive giggled. ‘Alright.’

‘Now, you remember how to use the camera?’

Olive nodded.

‘And you promise not to get hurt?’

Olive nodded again. ‘I promise.’

‘And you promise not to get caught.’

‘I promise.’

The three of them held hands once more, then parted.

‘Okay,’ Olive said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Let’s go.’

Chapter Eleven

‘He’ll do it.’ Millicent said, returning to Olive after having spent almost fifteen minutes in whispered conversation with Mr Bennett in the Porter’s Lodge.

‘Really?’ Olive was wide-eyed. ‘Are you sure? Is he sure? I don’t want to–’

‘He’s sure,’ Millicent said. ‘But don’t ask twice.’

For a moment, Olive forgot about the very dangerous thing she was about to do and just gazed at her friend. ‘He must have really loved you.’

‘Shush!’ Millicent glanced back into the lodge. ‘He might hear you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘We were very close once,’ Millicent muttered. ‘But that was a long time ago.’

‘Oh?’ Olive raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems like-’

‘Now is not the time,’ Millicent said, shaking her head. ‘Focus. George said they’ll be coming out of Hall in twenty minutes, so you don’t have long.’

‘Yes.’ Olive nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

Just as she spoke, Mr Bennett stepped out of the lodge with a heavy ring of keys in hand. He looked at Olive, his face a placid mask. ‘Ready?’

It wasn’t a question, for he started walking away towards the quad before Olive could answer. With one final grateful look to Millicent, she hurried after him. Keeping a few metres behind the Head Porter, Olive fixed her gaze on her shoes. Now that she was actually embarking on this escapade, her heart had started thudding so hard and her pulse racing so fast that she felt she might be about to faint. They needed to reach Rupert’s room without being seen by a tutor or any other member of staff.

Mr Bennett picked up his pace. Olive followed suit.

A few minutes later, they reached the second quad and entered staircase XVI. Olive noticed a list of eight names painted in black on white as soon as they entered the stairwell. The fifth name was “Middleton”. Without pause, the Head Porter mounted the stairs and, moments later alighting from the second flight he stopped and walked towards a door which bore another sign proclaiming it to be the room of the very same Middleton.

Without hesitation, Mr Bennett withdrew his keys and slid one into the lock. Olive held her breath. A second later, he pushed the door open. Olive lingered behind him and he turned to her, cocking his head towards the room.

‘Thank you,’ Olive mumbled. ‘Thank you so–’

‘I wasn’t here,’ Mr Bennett muttered in response. ‘I wasn’t here and I didn’t see you.’

‘Yes,’ Olive said. ‘Of course.’

And then, clutching her bag to her chest, and wishing her friends and Biscuit were beside her, Olive stepped into the room of Mr. Rupert Middleton.

As she entered and quietly clicked the door shut behind her, Olive soon realised it wasn’t one room, as she’d imagined, but a whole suite of rooms containing a bedroom, living room, bathroom and even a small balcony overlooking the quad. All in all, it was probably larger than her own flat. With a sigh, Olive quickly pulled herself together and sought out a place to hide. Somewhere she couldn’t possibly be seen and somewhere from which she could make an easy escape, once Rupert fell asleep or left again.

Olive had suggested to Arabella that she try to take Rupert out once she’d extracted the confession, to enable Olive to leave more easily. But they both knew that his movements would be impossible to predict and it was equally likely that Arabella might have to make her own swift exit – should things take a turn for the worse – without him. With this in mind, Olive decided against hiding under the bed. A decision that was assisted by the strong probability that she couldn’t anyway fit underneath it.

A cursory glance around the rooms ruled out most places that didn’t offer a decent view of the sofa, which was where she’d instructed Arabella to sit. In the end, there was no better option than the wardrobe which, frustratingly, was already bulging with Rupert’s crowded collection of suits, trousers and dozens of identical shirts. How many white shirts does one man need? Olive wondered as she squeezed in between a long black leather coat and a pair of yellow corduroy flares. She’d only been standing a few minutes when she felt a tickle in her nose and sneezed.

Sniffing loudly and rubbing her nose, Olive prayed that the dust wouldn’t irritate her again. If she betrayed her position before Rupert had a chance to say anything, it’d all be for nothing and worse. Questions would be asked about how she’d managed to slip past the Porter’s Lodge and break into the room and Olive was far from certain whether or not she could convince the authorities that she’d climbed up the drainpipe and entered through the balcony. Fortunately, he’d left the catch to the balcony window unlocked. Unfortunately, Olive was not in possession of a physique that was suggestive of serious (or even amateur) athletic ability. This was a shame. Still, if it came down to interrogation, she’d sooner rot in prison than implicate dear Mr Bennett.

After she’d set up the camera ready to record at a moment’s notice - checking the batteries, clicking in the film, switching on the button inside and outside - Olive amused herself while she waited by inventing new recipes to try at the café: pear and blue cheese quiches, courgette, French bean and salmon pie, mushroom and red onion tarts…

Then she had to stop because the thoughts were making her stomach rumble – though she wasn’t remotely hungry – and her mouth water. Olive worried, without reason, that a watering mouth might trigger an itchy nose. Still, it paid to be on the safe side so she changed her thoughts to focus on Biscuit and Blythe and what they might be getting up to now. But that soon made her worry that something might go wrong and she might never see them again. So Olive switched the track of her thoughts yet again to think on something truly mundane and benign: speculation over Prime Minister Edward Heath – successor to the hated egalitarian Harold Wilson – and his lack of a wife and whether or not he’d ever obtain one.

It was in this moment of nonsense that the door opened and Rupert and Arabella entered. At least, Olive assumed it must be them since she could only hear voices but not see anyone. Opening the wardrobe door a crack, she peered out into the living room to see Arabella walking towards the sofa and sitting. When Rupert followed and sat down beside her, Olive breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

‘What are you doing all the way over there?’ Rupert patted a spot on the sofa beside him. ‘Come here.’

Even from her hiding place across the room, Olive could see the revulsion on Arabella’s face at the proposition. Rupert, used to being adored and admired all his life, fortunately remained oblivious.

Olive watched Arabella inch slowly closer to Rupert and held her breath. Even though she wasn’t very keen on Arabella, Olive still felt terribly guilty to be putting the girl through this ordeal, and she prayed it wouldn’t get out of hand. If it did, if Rupert tried to take advantage of the situation, Olive was primed to tumble out of the wardrobe and leap into the fray. She only hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Admittedly, given Rupert’s proprietorial personality, he’d probably try something on but, hopefully, it wouldn’t be anything Arabella couldn’t handle alone.

We have to do this, Olive reminded herself. It’s necessary. There’s no other way.

‘What do you have to drink?’ Arabella asked, as Rupert lifted a finger to trace the line of her face. ‘Any cognac?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course. What was I thinking?’ Rupert stood. ‘How rude of me not to offer you any libation. It’s the sight of you in my bedroom, you quite took all the thoughts out of my head.’

Now Arabella smiled. ‘We’re not in your bedroom, Rup. Not yet.’

Olive’s eyes widened. It was like witnessing the instant transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly: the slightly nervous, disgusted girl had been suddenly replaced by a savvy, confident, seductive young woman. Olive had to give it to Arabella, she could certainly act.

‘Not yet,’ Rupert repeated, as he crossed the room to a small tray of bottles and glasses set atop a bookshelf. ‘I like the sound of that. It’s promising.’

‘Don’t bring me any of the cheap shit you keep for guests,’ Arabella called after him. ‘I’m not one of your Girton girls. I won’t drink anything under ten years old.’

‘Naturally.’ Rupert slid aside a line of books and pulled out a bottle that’d been hidden behind them. ‘I’d forgotten your penchant for the finer things.’ Taking two glasses, he poured an inch of cognac into each.

‘Don’t be stingy,’ Arabella said. ‘Try to serve me fewer than two shots and I’ll send you right back.’

‘My, my, we are being demanding tonight, aren’t we?’ Rupert laughed. ‘Alright, you can have mine.’ He tipped the contents of one glass into the other. ‘I’m already drunk on cheap Hall wine anyway. The Dean saves the best for High Table and gives the rest of us the dregs. Well, he’ll have to give me the good stuff when my father visits next week, or he can kiss goodbye to the funding for that new library he’s so desperate to build.’

Uncorking a nondescript bottle of red, Rupert liberally filled a new glass and brought both back to the sofa.

‘Here you go, princess.’ He handed Arabella the double-cognac. ‘Bottoms up.’

And, with that, Rupert put his own glass to his lips and downed the entire contents in three gulps. From the wardrobe, Olive gawped at him. Arabella hadn’t been wrong, it was clear that he certainly enjoyed a drink.

‘Piss poor,’ Rupert spat. ‘For a hundred quid a bottle I’d expect better than this. Tastes like turps.’

Olive clasped her hands over her mouth to conceal the gasp that rose in her throat. A hundred pounds? It was more than she made in a week. She watched him saunter back to his wine collection and take up another bottle – or it might have been the same one, she couldn’t tell since his back blocked her view – which he swigged without bothering to pour it first.

‘Still…’ Rupert wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘It all does the same job in the end, doesn’t it? I’m not fussy.’

‘Really?’ Arabella said playfully. ‘And yet you dine on oysters and caviar and dress in silk and cashmere. If I’m a princess, then you’re a prince.’

‘Then perhaps we should get married,’ Rupert said, as he headed back towards the sofa, stumbling on a rug before he reached it but managing to right himself before falling. ‘I’d have proposed to you, you know, if you hadn’t broken my heart.’

‘Your heart?’ Arabella snorted. ‘You have only one fully functioning organ in your body, Rup, and it’s certainly not your heart.’

‘Oh, no?’ Rupert giggled as he sat beside her again. ‘Are you quite sure about that?’ He took her free hand and brought it to his chest. ‘You see? Can’t you feel it? It beats only for you.’

‘Only for me?’ Arabella smiled. ‘Gosh, I am flattered. And how many other women have you fed that line?’ She leaned closer to him, so only an inch of air remained between them. ‘But you forget that I gained the highest marks in History Mods last year, beating even you. Isn’t that right?’ She kissed his cheek, then drew back and took a sip of her cognac. ‘I’m not a naïve little Fresher anymore.’

In the wardrobe, Olive gripped hold of the camera, wondering if she should start recording yet. Blythe had warned her that she could only film in short bursts – something to do with the focus or the zoom, Olive wasn’t entirely certain – so she had to time it well. She wasn’t sure what sort of game Arabella was playing – it didn’t seem like a good idea to tease him like this if they wanted to extract a confession – but she had to trust that the girl knew what she was doing. Anyway, what other choice did she have?

Olive uncapped the camera lens, focused the viewfinder and set the focus distance before, tentatively, pressing the trigger. Instantly, the air was pierced by a sharp whirring noise that caused Rupert to spring away from Arabella as if he’d just been bitten.

Olive instantly took her finger off the trigger, but it was too late.

‘What’s that?’ He said, looking wildly around the room. ‘What the hell is that noise?’

‘What noise?’ Arabella asked, all innocence. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘Then you’re deaf, because I definitely heard something.’

‘It was probably outside.’

Rupert stood. ‘It didn’t sound like it was outside. It sounded like it was inside.’

In the wardrobe, Olive held her breath.

‘Don’t be silly, Rup.’ Arabella reached for him. ‘You’re drunk. Sit down.’

Rupert hesitated. ‘I might be a little tipsy but I’m not high.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He lingered by her side though, like a tiger stalking prey, seemed ready to pounce into the room at any moment. ‘I’m not hallucinating. I’ve not taken anything since last weekend at Tristan’s house party.’

‘Well, what does it matter?’ Arabella persisted. ‘Stop focusing on imaginary noises and start focusing on the very real woman sitting on your sofa.’

Still, Rupert hesitated, glancing all around the room. When his gaze lingered on the wardrobe, Olive thought she might faint. But, mercifully, the presence of Arabella pulled his gaze back to the sofa.

‘How could I be so remiss?’ Rupert took a wobbly step towards her. ‘What does it matter if the building collapses atop of us, so long as we’re together in each other’s arms?’

Very quietly, Olive exhaled the breath she’d been holding but her pulse continued to race so fast that she had to lower the camera and lean against the back of the wardrobe to steady herself.

‘Speaking of arms, I was wondering…’ Arabella paused to take a long sip of cognac.

‘Yes?’ Rupert asked, clearly impatient to stop talking and start canoodling. ‘What were you wondering?’

‘I was wondering,’ Arabella repeated. ‘Whether or not you can still dance.’

At this, Rupert let out a guffaw of laughter. ‘Can I still dance? What sort of question is that? Of course I can! If anything, I’m better than before. And…’ He folded his arms, but still swayed a little, as if in slight danger of toppling over at any moment. ‘I’m quite sure I can still sweep you off your feet.’

‘Oh, really?’ Arabella fixed him with her inquisitive, seductive gaze. ‘Prove it.’

‘What?’ He frowned. ‘Now?’

Olive mirrored Rupert’s frown, wondering what on earth Arabella was planning with this introduction of dancing into the interrogation scene. What did she hope to achieve?

‘Yes.’ Arabella nodded. ‘Now. And, if you can recall my favourite song, then you’ll graduate tonight with a distinction.’

For a split-second Rupert looked blank and slightly panicked. Then, all at once, he laughed. ‘You thought I’d forgotten?’

‘No.’ Arabella smiled slowly. ‘I have every faith in you, Rupert Middleton.’

‘Good,’ he said, as he sashayed over to the corner of the room where Olive now noticed a small cabinet with a record player sitting on top. Kneeling down at the cabinet, Rupert made a show of scrolling through all the records stacked in rows until, plucking one out, he stood again.

‘Let’s see if your faith is justified, shall we?’ Rupert said as he slipped the record from its cover and, careful only to touch the sides, placed it onto the turntable. The needle squeaked as it met the plastic and slid into the groove.

For a moment, the silence in the room was palpable as three collective breaths were held, waiting for the music to begin. And then, the familiar notes heralded the voice of Paul McCartney as he began to sing the opening lines of Hey Jude.

Arabella clapped. ‘Yes!’ Setting her glass down on the floor, she danced over to join him. ‘But turn it down a little,’ she said, as she slipped into his arms. ‘I still want to be able to hear myself think.’

And then, at last, Olive understood. The music was to cover the noise of the Super 8 camera whirring away in the background. Although, it wouldn’t work unless they were considerably closer to the wardrobe. Close enough for Olive to be able to pick up their conversation.

‘Come on,’ Arabella said, as he turned the music down. ‘Show me those moves.’

‘Oh, I’ll show you my moves,’ Rupert said, picking her up and swinging her around till she squealed with delight. ‘I’ll show you all the moves I’ve got.’

Olive watched in awe as Arabella subtly and expertly manoeuvred Rupert towards the wardrobe, while all the time letting him feel as if he was the one leading her. It helped, of course, that he was three sheets to the wind, but still Olive could see that here was a woman who would always get what she wanted in life, while enabling those she manipulated to believe they’d initiated the idea.

Olive once more focused the camera and switched it on. This time the whirring was swallowed by the song and, though it still sounded awfully loud in Olive’s ears, Rupert noticed nothing amiss. He allowed Arabella to pull him into a slow dance while she whispered in his ear. Olive couldn’t hear what she was saying but, judging by Rupert’s widening grin, she could guess.

‘So, I heard a rumour.’ Arabella raised her voice.

‘Oh, yes?’ Rupert held his grin. ‘That I’m a fantastic lover?’

‘Well, of course,’ she conceded. ‘Though I already know that first hand.’

‘Right, right.’ Rupert laughed. ‘Of course you do, you lucky girl.’

He must be pretty drunk, Olive thought, if he’d forgotten that they’d already slept together.

In that moment, Rupert seized the opportunity to give Arabella’s bottom a quick squeeze. In response she turned her head away and Olive captured her grimace on camera.

Then, the recording stopped.

Inwardly, Olive cursed. She would have to wait and, if she only had a window of a few minutes to capture a recording, try to time it right.

‘No, this was another rumour,’ Arabella said, speaking carefully so that she could certainly be heard. ‘That you were the one who pushed that frightful upstart off the roof.’

For a second, Rupert froze.

Quickly, Arabella placed her hand on his lapel. ‘I was hoping someone would,’ she said, smoothly. ‘Nasty little cuckoo didn’t belong here – I know you agree – so when I heard, I must confess, I thought it was probably you.’

Quickly, Olive pressed the trigger on the camera again so it whirred into action. She focused the lens, zooming in for a close-up on Rupert’s face.

‘Really?’ His tone changed. ‘You’d like that, would you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Arabella said, as if she couldn’t imagine anything more sensual. ‘Very much.’

‘Well…’

In that moment, Olive’s nose began to itch again.

Not now, not now, not now!

She scrunched up her nose and prayed.

‘Well, in that case I wish I could say I pushed him.’ Rupert sighed. ‘But regrettably I didn’t, so I can’t.’

Then, he promptly bent over and vomited on his shoes.

‘Oh!’ Arabella recoiled. ‘Rup, that’s disgusting!’

‘Sorry,’ he moaned, wiping his hand across his mouth. ‘Sorry, I think I had a touch too much to drink.’

‘I’ll say,’ Arabella snapped, no longer able to conceal her disgust. ‘And if you think I’m cleaning up that mess, you’ve got another thing coming.’

Stepping quickly away from the mess, Arabella sought refuge on the sofa and Rupert stumbled after her to sit, now at a respectful distance, at the other end. As they continued to bicker, Olive stared at them through the camera lens and the grainy picture it provided, in disbelief. Then she let the camera drop to her side.

No, it couldn’t be. She’d been so certain. So utterly certain that it’d been a murder and that Rupert had been the one who’d done it. She couldn’t have been wrong. Worse still, the cards couldn’t have been wrong. It simply wasn’t possible.

Olive, feeling utterly bereft, stared hopelessly out at the room. Overwhelmed with disappointment, defeated at the final hurdle, she didn’t know what to do. It had all been for nothing. Putting Mr Bennett’s job at risk, putting Arabella’s safety at risk, and her own. It’d all been ultimately pointless.

Rupert was now slumped over the arm of the sofa, moaning loudly while Arabella reached her own arm across the divide to gingerly patted his back with the tips of her fingers while casting surreptitious and meaningful glances towards the wardrobe. Yes, Olive wanted to say, I want to get out of this damn wardrobe too. All at once it felt like the wooden walls were closing in and she felt a scream rise in her chest. She desperately wanted to run home, curl up on her bed with Biscuit, and a plate of chocolate biscuits, and cry.

How could the cards have been wrong?!

When the endless instrumental ending of Hey Jude finally started to fade Olive could hear Rupert’s piggy snores rising from the sofa and she breathed a long sigh of relief.

‘It’s alright,’ Arabella called out. ‘You can come out now. He sleeps like a log when he’s drunk. A marching band could strike up outside and it wouldn’t wake him.’

Hesitating only a moment, Olive nudged open the wardrobe door and stepped out into the room. Arabella, having abandoned Rupert on the sofa, crossed the carpet to meet her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arabella said. ‘I really thought he’d done it too.’

‘You shouldn’t be apologising to me.’ Olive shook her head. ‘I should be apologising to you. I dragged you into this. I put you at risk. I was just so convinced I knew the truth that I let it blind me to everything else.’

Arabella patted Olive’s arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, offering a sympathetic smile. ‘We’re all wrong sometimes.’ She winked. ‘Even me.’

‘You’re very kind.’ Olive gave her a grateful smile, no longer finding Arabella remotely obnoxious. ‘And thanks so much for trying.’

Together they snuck out of Rupert’s room and, under cover of night, slipped out of King’s College without being seen by anyone except Mr Bennett who, while his eyebrows twitched at the unexpected sight of Arabella, pretended to notice nothing.

It wasn’t until she was crossing King’s Parade, heading back towards The Biscuit Tin, that Olive realised what she’d been too distracted and distressed to realise earlier.

This realisation stopped her in the middle of the road.

It was the way Rupert had said “I”. With a particular emphasis, a certain inflection, that didn’t simply imply that he hadn’t pushed Jack because it’d been an accident, but that he hadn’t pushed Jack because someone else had. The more Olive thought about it, the more convinced she was. And, just to be sure, she fished the camera out of her bag and played back the recording, right there in the street.

Yes, it was clear. Rupert’s tone clearly suggested that there was another culprit, another boy who’d pushed poor Jack to his death. It was unfortunate, of course, that he hadn’t provided a name but still Olive dearly hoped this was enough evidence to go to the police and at least get them to postpone the inquest and interview the boys again. And since the coroner was ruling tomorrow, she couldn’t afford to wait.

Olive glanced at her watch: 11.23pm.

The station would be closed and, unfortunately, she couldn’t call 999 because, desperate as she was to get hold of Detective Dixon and show him the recording, it still didn’t constitute an emergency. Which meant that she’d have to turn up at the station first thing in the morning.

Olive sighed. She wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

Chapter Twelve

‘But that’s what it  must mean,’ Olive insisted. ‘Don’t you see?’

She’d turned up on the doorstep of the Cambridgeshire Police Station at sunrise with Biscuit in tow. She’d had to walk because, frustratingly, her bike had somehow acquired a puncture, and was out of breath and irritable when she arrived. Olive did not like walking; fortunately Biscuit did most of her own running about whenever they went to the park. Failing that, Millicent, who loved walking so much she even took holidays to climb mountains, would take her.

Olive had then had to wait nearly an hour before a junior officer had arrived to open up. She’d persuaded him to call Detective Dixon into work early – first having tried reason and, when that failed, resorting to hysterics – and was now, after having shown him the video, trying to persuade him of the voracity of her claims.

‘I’m not disagreeing with you Olive,’ Hugo said, lowering his voice every time Olive raised hers which, though he intended it to calm her, only served to make her even more irritated. ‘I see that it certainly suggests that someone else pushed him. However, I also know that suggestions and implications and the like – especially in the absence of more substantial evidence – don’t tend to hold up in court.’

‘But,’ Olive protested. ‘Can’t you at least–’

‘And,’ Hugo continued, ‘given that you obtained this video by sneaking into a private residence and hiding in a wardrobe – something I’m still very upset about, by the way, given that you put yourself, to say nothing of that girl, in an unpredictable amount of danger – it was thus acquired not only without the subject’s knowledge but also while you were effectively breaking and entering, any barrister worth his salt will probably be able to suppress it and stop us from using it in prosecution so–’

‘No!’ Olive marched up and down the room. ‘That’s ridiculous! It doesn’t matter how it was obtained, it only matters that it was obtained. I mean, I know you’ve got all those laws and rules to follow, but once you get evidence like this, surely all that is irrelevant.’

‘Oh, Miss Crisp.’ Detective Dixon said, sounding truly regretful and, perhaps surprisingly given his position, not in the least patronising. ‘If only it worked like that. If only the legal system was concerned only with Truth and Justice, as it purports to be. However, in our pursuit of these things we must follow certain protocols and obey certain rules and, if we do not, then it doesn’t matter if we’re absolutely in the right, we might still lose our case. Thus, given that this video isn’t a direct confession but one person merely implying that another person might have…’

‘Might?’ Olive echoed. ‘Might?! Look, can’t you just show it to a judge. It’s on video, for goodness sake! No one can dispute it. Surely, if you showed a judge he’d agree that, if nothing else, it at least gives you grounds to open the investigation as a murder case.’

The detective gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘We wouldn’t be showing it to a judge unless we went to court,’ he explained. ‘And we can’t go to court unless we have a defendant who we’ve charged with murder. So, you see–’

‘So, then charge someone with murder!’ Olive heard herself shrieking but was unable to stop. She simply couldn’t believe that, after all she’d gone through, after all Arabella and Mr Bennett had gone through, it still wasn’t enough. ‘One of them did it. So why don’t you charge them all? And then lock them up in your cells until one of them confesses?’

Detective Dixon gave Olive what he hoped was a soothing smile. ‘I’m afraid that’s not really how it works. We can’t just go around charging people with murder willy nilly, we have to have some basis, otherwise their solicitor will simply refute the charge and, essentially, get it overturned. Otherwise we’d be violating people’s civil rights and that’s not–’

Unfortunately, Olive found the smile, coupled with his words, more condescending than soothing, which only served to incense her further. ‘So, what are you saying? You’re still going to recommend that the coroner rule Jack’s death as an accident, even though you now know that it’s not?’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Hugo suggested, nodding at the chair. ‘I could get you a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t want a cup of tea!’ Olive shrieked again. ‘I want you to take me seriously!’

As soon as he’d arrived on the scene, Detective Dixon, keen to contain and calm the hysterical state in which he’d found her, had ushered Olive into an interrogation room and tried to persuade her to sit down and take deep breaths. She had refused to do either. He’d also, for the past hour, proffered numerous cups of tea. All of which had been rejected.

‘I am taking you seriously,’ Hugo insisted. ‘I believe you. I agree with you. His inflection certainly suggests that someone did push Mr Whitstable. But we don’t have a name, nor anything concrete to go on. So, I’m afraid it’s not really enough to sway the case. I’m a police officer; there are certain protocols I have to follow.’

‘Protocols?!’ Olive’s tones reached dangerous levels of stridency, the pitch of her shriek now threatening the safety of the double-sided mirror on the wall. ‘Protocols?! We now know that the poor boy was killed, on purpose, and you’re harping on about protocols?!’

An unfortunate side-effect of Olive’s fury was that her face puffed up like a frog and took on a purplish hue, a look which proved rather comical for whoever she was arguing with and thus served to undermine the strength of her argument. Olive herself was well aware of this but, no matter how she’d tried to combat it she could not.

Hugo, finding this look not only comical but exceedingly endearing, did his very best to swallow a smile and remain serious. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Truly, I do. And given this new evidence that you’ve brought me I can, on that basis, at the very least bring Mr Middleton in for further questioning. The coroner’s case isn’t till after lunch, so we’ve still got time before his ruling to present more evidence. How does that sound?’

Olive folded her arms. ‘I suppose that would be a start. But of course he’ll just lie to you. I mean, that was the whole point of Arabella, and getting him drunk… He wouldn’t have confessed otherwise. He’s a heartless snob, but he’s not an idiot.’

‘Yes,’ Hugo said. ‘But the fact that he was drunk at the time is just another reason the defence could use to make the video, and everything he said on it, inadmissible in court. You see, we have to–’

‘But people tell the truth when they’re drunk,’ Olive interrupted. ‘Everyone knows that. “In vino veritas” and all that. So surely that stands in our favour?’

‘I’m afraid not, Miss Crisp. If a subject was not “of sound mind” when he said something then-’

‘What?!’ Olive threw up her hands. ‘This is ridiculous! You can interrogate him all you want, but he won’t tell you what he told Arabella. He didn’t the first time you questioned him, so why would he now?’

‘Yes,’ Hugo conceded. ‘I appreciate that it’s unlikely he’ll just give up the name of whoever did this, but you need to trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time, I’m no idiot either. I have my ways, my techniques to encourage people to let their guard down and tell me the truth…’

‘Your techniques?’ Olive repeated. For a moment she was distracted by the word, no longer thinking about crimes and interrogations, but about how Hugo talked to her. ‘I’m not sure…’

‘Oh, no.’ Hugo felt a blush rising to his own cheeks. ‘Don’t worry! I don’t, I’m not… I don’t go around using my “techniques” in everyday life, only with suspects. I’m perfectly normal with other people.’

Olive breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, good. I don’t want you using any of your special tricks to get me to tell the truth.’

At this, a look of curiosity slipped onto his face and he pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Why not?’ Hugo asked, as he stepped towards her. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to tell me the truth?’

With a nervous laugh, Olive stepped back. ‘No reason. It’s just… We all have thoughts…’ She felt herself start to sweat, as if she was suddenly the one being interrogated. ‘Thoughts that we want to keep private.’

Slowly, Hugo smiled. It was a knowing, secret smile. And, all at once, Olive believed that he could see into her mind and knew exactly what she was thinking. Her pulse started to race and her heart to thud in her chest and she glanced around for something to hold onto to steady herself. But the only thing within reach was Hugo.

He continued smiling and now that they were only inches apart again, Olive was again struck by the notion that he might be about to kiss her. She held her breath.

And then, there was a knock at the door.

Hugo leapt back from Olive as if he’d just been burned and she did the same.

The door opened and a junior officer, the very one Olive had become hysterical with that morning, poked his head into the room. At the sight of Olive he flinched slightly and averted his eyes to focus on Hugo.

‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Detective,’ he said. ‘But you’re needed at the front desk. Urgent phone call. Judge Abernathy. I’m afraid he’s refusing to wait.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Hugo nodded. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘Thank you.’ The junior officer extracted himself from the room and the door closed again behind him. Hugo turned back to Olive.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll visit Mr Middleton this morning, first thing.’

‘But you won’t show him the video, will you? I mean, if it’s not in court, by the sounds of what you say, right now I think it’d only make things worse.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ll be discreet. And hopefully none of that will be necessary. Just leave me to work my magic.’

Olive gave him a wry smile. ‘Your techniques.’

‘Indeed.’ He returned it. ‘My techniques.’

Chapter Thirteen

Olive stood behind the café counter staring at the clock. Biscuit, who lay under the table closest to the counter, also kept glancing up at the clock clearly wondering what her mistress was so preoccupied by. Her ancestors assisted by keeping out the more obnoxious customers – including several groups of strident Etonians and the Dean of King’s College himself, who rattled the jammed door so vigorously that he nearly broke the handle before giving up and seeking substandard treats elsewhere. Olive served the other customers without engaging as enthusiastically as she usually did and, whenever the café was empty, she reached for something to nibble on. It didn’t really matter what: Bakewell tarts, almond pastries, vanilla cream puffs, lemon chiffon cakes and lavender biscuits… She simply needed the distraction of delicious food to take the edge off the dreadful tension of waiting.

At eleven o’clock, the bell above the door chimed, the door swung open – helped by the gentle tug of a ghostly hand – and Blythe bustled in. Olive didn’t need to check the clock, though she still did so, for her friend appeared at the same time every morning without fail for a “little morsel” of something sweet to enjoy with a cup of tea for her elevenses. “Like Winnie the Pooh”, she always said if ever one of her own customers – objecting to being momentarily abandoned – queried her routine.

‘What’ll it be today, B?’ Olive, who’d been leaning on the counter contemplating her own next “little morsel”, straightened. ‘I can recommend the apple flapjacks; they’ve come out particularly well today. If I do say so myself.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I knew I wouldn’t sleep last night, so I just stayed up baking.’

‘Two of those then please,’ Blythe said. ‘And a cup of your finest.’

Olive nodded and, after slipping four slices of apple flapjacks onto a plate, turned to flick on the kettle for a pot of tea.

‘Did he say he’d come to the café with any news?’ Blythe asked as she bit into one of the flapjacks. She was never able to wait for the tea to brew or even the kettle to boil. ‘Gosh, you’re right, these are utterly delicious.’

‘I don’t know,’ Olive admitted. ‘He didn’t say. I’m guessing he’ll probably call, but he might pop by. It’ll depend how busy he is, or if he had any luck getting anything out of him…’

Blythe nodded thoughtfully. She’d been waiting in the café last night, along with Millicent, anxious for news and worried that something might have gone wrong. When Olive had finally arrived – safe and sound – and told them everything they’d both been incredibly relieved. And now, delighted that the cards and Olive’s instincts had been vindicated, they were as eager as she was to see that justice was done.

The kettle whistled and Olive set about filling the tea pot with Earl Grey leaves and bringing it, along with cups and saucers, to the table where Biscuit was keeping guard. Blythe followed, bringing the plate of apple flapjacks - now only three remaining - and setting them down before pulling out a chair.

‘Do you still think there’s time?’ She asked, taking her second tart as Olive poured the tea.

Olive frowned. ‘Time for what?’

Blythe shrugged, as if the answer was self-evident. ‘To meet a man, to settle down and have children…’

‘I don’t know,’ Olive admitted. ‘I hope so. I mean, I’m sure you’ll get married, if only you’ll find someone worthy of you. But I’m starting to think I might never have a baby. Forty-one is no spring chicken, after all.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Blythe patted Olive’s hand. ‘My grandmother had her last baby at forty-eight. And that was back in the last century! You’ve still got plenty of time.’

‘Her last?’ Olive took a sip of tea. ‘I’ve not even had my first. And perhaps I just can’t. Not every woman can.’

Blythe shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She swallowed the final bite of her custard tart and whetted her finger to pick up the remaining crumbs of pastry. ‘But, are you still so certain you don’t want a husband to go with that baby?’

Olive hesitated.

She always told her friends everything, they all did. Every secret thought, every embarrassing event, every joy, every sorrow. And yet. She hadn’t told them what had been going on between her and Hugo. There had always been a mild frisson between them, ever since he’d transferred to the Cambridge constabulary from Ely last year, which was why Millicent and Blythe loved to tease her about it. But lately, unless she was imagining it, this frisson had escalated to a flirtation which intensified every time they met. And, even if she was imagining that, still she couldn’t deny her own feelings for him which were certainly intensifying daily.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not a husband, never.’

Blythe raised an eyebrow, but Olive was, at least, certain on this point.

‘The Crisp women have done very well without husbands for three hundred years,’ she said. ‘And, unless and until the laws change to give us greater authority and control over our bodies, children and property, then I hope no Crisp woman ever will.’

‘You’re so cynical,’ Blythe said. ‘You sound like Millicent. We’re not in our grandmother’s times anymore, you know.’

‘Oh, no?’ Olive raised an eyebrow. ‘And given that women’s work, raising a family and tending a house, is unpaid is she not left homeless and abandoned when divorced?’

Blythe sighed, unable to deny it.

‘And were you not refused a drink at The Mitre last month because you were unaccompanied by a male companion?’

Blythe scowled.

‘And can a woman still be sacked for falling pregnant?’

Blythe grunted.

Olive folded her arms. ‘I rest my case.’

Blythe’s reply was lost on them both because, in that moment, the bell above the door chimed and a girl stepped inside. As she approached the counter, Olive stood, brushing her hands on her apron and checking for crumbs, then hurried over to serve her. She was standing behind the counter just as the girl reached it.

‘Good morning,’ Olive said. ‘What would you…?’

She trailed off, gazing at the girl who blinked rapidly back at her. And all at once she understood that this customer hadn’t come to the café for cakes.

‘You’ve come to tell me your secret?’

The girl nodded.

‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ Olive glanced at the clock: almost eleven thirty. She still had an hour or so before the inquest. She prayed the girl would say yes.

After a brief hesitation, the girl nodded again.

‘Good.’ Olive tried not to sound too relieved. ‘Then let’s sit down.’

Chapter Fourteen

‘I’m Grace,’ the girl said timidly. ‘Jack was my best friend.’ She paused, taking a deep breath before she carried on. ‘We… we spent every day together, we told each other everything… We weren’t in love, not like that. Jack didn’t…’ She trailed off before picking up her thread again. ‘But we loved each other deeply.’

‘I understand.’ Olive nodded. ‘I have two friends I love like family. We always meet for breakfast, and often dinner too. And I tell them everything.’ As she spoke, Olive thought guiltily of what she hadn’t told them about her growing feelings for Hugo. ‘Well, anyway, please go on.’

‘So…’ Grace stared at her hands, fiddling with the embroidered edge of the tablecloth.

Blythe had politely made herself scarce as soon as she’d recognised the girl and even Biscuit had retreated to sit beneath a corner table in the café and keep an eye on the door, ready to jump up in case a customer dared to enter.

‘When I was… hurt,’ Grace found her voice again. ‘Jack was the first person – the only person – I told.’

‘Yes,’ Olive said, softly. ‘I see.’

And she did see. For, although Grace hadn’t yet told her everything, or indeed much of anything, Olive knew what she was going to say. Perhaps it was because she’d just been talking about that very topic with Blythe, or perhaps she really had inherited a soupçon of the psychic gene rumoured to run through her matriarchal lineage, but either way Olive was quite certain what had happened to poor Grace.

She waited for Grace to find the courage to go on but the girl fiddled with her glasses, adjusting them, pushing them back on her nose, then tugging on her plaits. Olive noticed that the girl’s nails were bitten down and bleeding and she deeply suspected that, if she looked, she’d find self-inflicted scars somewhere on her skin. Olive reached for Grace’s hand, but the girl pulled away.

‘Would you like a hot drink?’ Olive asked. ‘Or something to eat?’

The girl, thin as a whippet, looked as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Weeks. Not, probably, since the dreadful event had occurred.

‘No, thank you,’ she mumbled, shaking her head.

Olive watched the girl’s plaits swing back and forth and felt her heart contract. Grace must be eighteen or nineteen, she thought, but she didn’t look a day over twelve. Either way, she could easily have been Olive’s daughter and that fact made Olive want to cry – even more than she already did.

‘I’m sorry,’ Olive mumbled, blinking away tears. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened to you.’

Now, at last, Grace looked up to meet Olive’s gaze and Olive saw that the girl’s eyes were also brimming with tears.

‘I-it was my fault,’ she stuttered. ‘I went to his r-room. After hours, after I’d seen Jack…’ She took a deep breath. ‘And…’

‘You don’t have to explain,’ Olive whispered. ‘Don’t say anything if you don’t want to. Just tell me his name. And I’ll do the rest.’

But Grace wasn’t listening. She had, it seemed, returned to the past and was now lost in her memories and unreachable.

‘H-he told me afterwards that I’d led him on,’ she whispered. ‘That I was asking for it. An innocent girl, he said, d-doesn’t go to a boy’s room at night.’ A single tear slid down her cheek, quickly followed by another. ‘But I-I was innocent, I was…’

‘You still are.’ Quietly pushing her chair back, Olive stood and stepped gently over to Grace. She hoped she wouldn’t startle the girl, but she simply couldn’t sit and watch someone in so much pain without reaching out to hold her. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Olive said softly, slipping her arm tenderly over Grace’s shoulder. ‘It was never your fault.’

At Olive’s touch, as if she’d pressed an invisible button, Grace burst into tears. She sobbed and sobbed, while Olive held her and prayed that no one would come into the shop till Grace had calmed. But she knew she needed to cry, for the trauma of the violence and the grief of the loss. The poor dear girl had suffered immeasurably in the past few weeks and Olive wanted nothing more now than to share the burden of that trauma in the hopes that it might help lift Grace’s pain just a little.

Once or twice, the bell above the door chimed, but whoever opened the door quickly closed it again as soon as Biscuit sprang up and yapped them away. Mercifully, Grace seemed oblivious to either the intrusion or the noise. Olive, mindful of the ticking clock, kept glancing at the wall. Desperate to call Hugo and tell him everything before it was too late. It was half past eleven. She held Grace’s shoulders, eyes fixed on the big hand of the clock as it slowly made its way towards the highest point.

At three minutes before midday Grace’s sobs slowed, till they ceased and she finally fell silent. Then she spoke, her voice a whisper.

‘Buckingham.’ The words were low but clear. ‘His name is Charles Buckingham.’

Chapter Fifteen

Olive didn’t wait for Detective Dixon to come to her, she went to him. After Grace had spoken those two words, she had wiped her eyes, stood and turned to walk out of the café. Olive did not call after her, there was no need. She knew where to find her when the time came for testimonies and all that, and first she needed to find Hugo. He’d said that the inquest would be held after lunch and it was now just gone twelve thirty so, hopefully, there was still time.

First, Olive called the station. But the officer on duty, the very same Constable Cooper she’d encountered that morning, had fobbed her off, saying that the detective was engaged in important business and couldn’t be disturbed. No doubt interrogating Rupert Middleton, Olive thought, with whom he was probably making very little progress.

Which meant there was only one thing for it. She would have to go in person. She would have to run.

‘Wait here for me, Biscuit,’ she instructed her spaniel. ‘I’m afraid they won’t allow dogs at the station. Urgent crime-solving business. I won’t be long; the ghosts will keep you company.’

Biscuit barked her assent, Olive blew her a kiss, flipped over the “closed” sign, locked the door and started to run.

Now, Olive was not a runner. She wasn’t a jogger either, nor even much of a walker. Occasionally, she hurried to the post-box in order to catch the postman but even that minimal exertion always left her panting and sweating in a most unladylike manner. Thus, as a general rule, she gave exercise of all kinds a wide berth.

Now, however, Olive ran.

She ran down Bene’t street, past the Guildhall, pausing at the corner to gulp air before plunging on again. Stumbling along the next street, stopping several times to lean against the brick walls of the Corn Exchange to stop from passing out, then pushing on till she reached Downing Street and almost crawled across to the other side of the street to collapse on the low wall flanking the Sedgwick Museum. When, at last, Olive reached Parker’s Piece she dropped to her knees on the grass and cried, while desperately trying to slow her breathing, suppressing the urge to vomit.

Olive tackled the final two hundred metres like a person rounding out the last mile of a hundred mile marathon: wheezing, spluttering, stumbling and dribbling till at last she reached the doors of the Cambridge Police Station, flung herself against them and then, gaining entry into the hallowed ground, collapsed, face-planting onto the carpet.

The officer standing behind the front desk – Constable Cooper – removed his helmet and set it down carefully beside his cup of tea before hurrying to her aid.

‘Madame? Are you alright? What’s wrong? Please…’

With great effort of will, Olive rolled over then pulled herself onto her elbows to squint up into the face of Constable Cooper, who she’d scared with her hysterical demands to see Detective Dixon. Upon recognising her in turn, Constable Cooper flinched violently and quickly scuttled back to his original position behind the front desk looking decidedly shaken.

‘I’m calling you an ambulance,’ he declared, already dialling. ‘You must leave. You, you need help.’

Olive shook her head wildly, trying to protest, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

‘Yes?’ Ignoring her, Constable Cooper spoke into the phone. ‘Ambulance please. Yes. 39 Parkside, CB1 1JG. I’m calling from the Police Station. We have a woman here who’s collapsed. No, I don’t know. Yes. She came off the street.’ He lowered his voice, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘She seems to be on drugs and drunk, probably a vagrant. I’m not certain. But yes, straightaway please.’

‘Stop!’ Olive finally found her breath. ‘I-I’m not drunk, I j-just ran all the w-way across town.’ Gripping onto the edge of the front desk, legs shaking, she slowly pulled herself up. ‘I-I need to see D-Detective Dixon, it’s an e-emergency.’

Constable Cooper shook his head. ‘No, no. You cannot see him. As I already told you over the phone, he’s engaged in a very important matter and cannot be disturbed. His instructions were most insistent.’ Realising that the emergency operator was still on the line, Constable Cooper muttered inaudibly into the phone and set it back, a little briskly, into its cradle.

‘Sorry,’ Olive said, regaining control of her legs again and marching towards the door separating the entrance room from the main building. ‘But I must.’

‘No,’ Constable Cooper hurried in front to block her way. Reaching the door first he folded his meaty arms across the considerable bulk of his chest and stood immoveable. ‘I will not allow it.’

‘Let me in!’ Olive cried, a little embarrassed to be making such a scene again. But if she had to play the hysterical woman card again, she would. ‘Let me in!’

‘No!’ Constable Cooper, deciding in his desperation to match like with like, shrieked back. ‘No! I will not!’

‘Let me in!’

‘No!’

Several minutes of further back-and-forth shrieking ensued before, at last, another police officer burst in from behind the doors to break up the melee.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ He demanded. ‘I have never… Constable, why in all Christendom are you behaving in such a hysterical manner? I expect such behaviour from the public’ – he cast a derisive eye over Olive – ‘but not an officer of the law. Explain yourself.’

Looking sheepish, Constable Cooper dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Sorry, Sir. She was insisting on seeing Detective Dixon, Sir. I was attempting to enforce protocol.’

Protocol. That word again. Olive bristled.

‘I must see Detective Dixon immediately,’ she said, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘It’s a matter of absolute urgency and the utmost importance. Any delay could result in a…’ – she scrambled in her brain for the correct term – ‘serious miscarriage of justice.’

But this officer, clearly used to dealing with the deranged and demented, remained unruffled. ‘I’m afraid that is out of the question, Mrs…’

‘Miss,’ Olive corrected. ‘Miss Crisp. I’m the owner of The Biscuit Tin and an, um, good friend of Detective Dixon’s and when I tell him that–’

‘Miss Crisp?’ the officer’s tone shifted instantly. ‘Well, of course. Why didn’t you say so? We are all great fans of your café, none more so than Detective Dixon. And I know he’ll want to see you as soon as he’s done.’ He nodded sharply at Constable Cooper. ‘Go to the staffroom and make Miss Crisp a cup of tea. And bring the best biscuits, not the garibaldis, the fancy ones we save for the Superintendent.’

With a single nod, Constable Cooper scampered off, tail between his legs.

‘Now, I’m sure this has all been a misunderstanding, Miss Crisp,’ the senior officer said as he ushered her towards the chair behind the desk. ‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll–’

Not waiting to hear the end of his sentence, Olive seized her opportunity to make a dash for it and, slipping out of his guiding hand, plunged towards the doors and nose-dived through into the other side. Not pausing a moment to see if she was being followed, Olive hurtled along the corridor calling “Detective Dixon!”

She hadn’t reached halfway down when a door opened and he stepped out.

‘Miss Crisp!’ He exclaimed, as Olive careened into him. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ Olive gathered herself and patted him down, checking for wounds. ‘Are you–? You’re fine, right? I didn’t see you there…’

‘Nor I you, Miss Crisp.’ He closed the door behind him. ‘Tell me, why exactly are you here?’

‘I have information,’ Olive said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘A breakthrough. I–’

‘Wait!’ The senior officer burst through the doors after Olive, just as Constable Cooper emerged from the staff room to see what all the hullabaloo was about. ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ He said, now addressing his superior officer. ‘I tried to stop her but she - she wouldn’t be stopped. I - would you like me to put her in a cell? I can–’

‘No, no.’ Detective Dixon dismissed both men with a wave of his hand. ‘I can take it from here. Return to your posts.’

Nodding, they both retreated, relieved to be dismissed, to be freed from the unfolding drama.

‘Apologies.’ He returned to Olive. ‘Now, what were you saying?’

‘I think,’ Olive began. ‘That’s to say, I know who pushed Jack from the roof.’

Detective Dixon frowned and Olive tried not to focus too hard on his face, the laughter lines around his intense blue eyes, the twitch of his full lips, the cut of his jaw…

‘You were right,’ he said. ‘Mr Middleton is sticking to his story. He claims that Mr Witstable fell and he assures me that the other five members of the Night Climbers will maintain the very same. I employed all of my techniques but I’m afraid he remained immune to my charms.’ He sighed. ‘I’m thinking it might be time to show him the video; that’s what I was just coming to call you about. I know it’ll have significant repercussions but given that it may also force him to change his testimony, I believe it could be worth it.’

Olive regarded Hugo quizzically. ‘For someone who was quite convinced this morning that Rupert was innocent and Jack’s death accidental, you’ve certainly changed your tune.’

‘Yes.’ Hugo nodded. ‘Because the first time I questioned him I was, foolishly, assuming his innocence and so had my radar – my internal lie detector – turned off. This time it was fully switched on and when that’s the case, I know when someone’s lying to me. And Mr Middleton is definitely lying to me.’

Olive narrowed her eyes, momentarily forgetting her own news. ‘But why? Why did you assume that he was innocent? I thought the police were always primed for guilt and crime.’

‘Yes, I suppose we should be,’ Hugo admitted. ‘Yet, sadly, we’re also only human and often flawed, susceptible sometimes to being persuaded by an convincing authority into-’

‘What authority?’ Olive interrupted. ‘Who–?’

But she in turn was interrupted by the door to the interrogation room opening and the infuriated face of Rupert Middleton poking out into the hallway.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ He snapped. ‘I know my rights. You can’t hold me here without charge. I’ve said all I’m going to say and now, unless you want me to call my father’s solicitor, I’m leaving.’

‘Wait.’

It was not Detective Dixon who spoke but, to her own surprise, Olive.

‘What?’ Rupert scowled. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Watch it,’ Hugo warned. ‘That is not how you address a lady.’

But Rupert’s scowl only deepened. ‘And she’s no lady. Nor a police officer, so I don’t have to listen to anything she says.’ He pushed past Olive. ‘And you’ve got no cause to keep me here, Detective. So I’m going.’

‘Wait!’ Olive called, as she watched him marching away. ‘I know what Charles did!’

Rupert stopped.

‘That’s right,’ Olive said. ‘I know what he did to Grace and I know that she told Jack and I know that Jack was going to tell the police, to tell everyone, and that’s why Charles pushed him.’

For a moment, Rupert simply stood with his back to them, still facing the exit. Olive held her breath, waiting, hoping that she’d got it right, that she’d said what was needed, that she’d aimed the bullet and hit the bull’s eye.

‘You know nothing of the sort.’ Rupert turned slowly to face them. ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘Is this true?’ Hugo muttered to her. ‘Are you quite certain?’

‘Yes.’ Olive nodded. ‘Grace came to see me. She told me everything.’

‘She did not.’ Rupert spat the words. ‘And if she did, she’s a lying little bitch.’

‘And why?’ Olive asked. ‘Why would she lie?’

Rupert shrugged. ‘How should I know? For attention. For revenge. I expect she loved him and he broke her heart. He does that a lot. But why do I care?’

‘You should care.’ Detective Dixon stepped forward. ‘You should care because now both your necks are on the line.’

Olive glanced from Hugo to Rupert and back. She wasn’t entirely certain what was unfolding now, but she knew enough, trusted Hugo enough, not to interrupt.

‘Oh yes?’ Rupert said loftily. ‘And how’s that?’

‘Because you might not believe Miss Crisp, but I do. And when I interrogate this Charles fellow, my guess is that he’ll deny it – just like you – but he’ll also have no way of knowing that you didn’t turn on him, that you didn’t break the pact and betray his secret and confess to what he did.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Rupert snapped. ‘Why would he think that?’

‘Because that’s what I’ll tell him.’

Hugo stepped forward and Rupert stepped back.

‘And I’ll tell him you’re lying.’

Hugo shook his head. ‘But you won’t be able to, Mr Middleton, because I’ll have you both in separate interrogation rooms and I’ll keep you there until one of you turns on the other. Do you trust him not to do that?’ He stepped forward once more. ‘Do you think your dear friend, your comrade in arms, would stay loyal to you with his own life on the line?’ Hugo put his finger to his lips, as if considering. ‘If you’re both threatened with prosecution, which one of you will betray the other first, I wonder…?’

‘That’s absurd.’ Rupert tried to step back again but he was now pressed against the wall. ‘Why would I do it? What’s my motive? Charles was the one who screwed that fag’s girlfriend – I didn’t go anywhere near her.’

‘Ah.’ Detective Dixon raised an eyebrow. ‘So you did know.’

Rupert shrugged. ‘So what if I did? You still can’t prove she wasn’t gagging for it. You’ve got nothing to–’

‘Oh no, you’re quite wrong there,’ Hugo persisted. ‘I’ve got everything I need. Enough to put you back in that room and keep you there till I can round up this nasty little friend of yours and tell him what you just told me.’

Rupert lifted his chin. ‘I’ll deny it. It’s your word against mine. And my father-’

‘True enough,’ Hugo cut him off. ‘But what about your word against your friend’s? If this Charles fellow insists that you did it, what defence will you have? And I’m guessing that his father is pretty hot stuff too. Right?’

Rupert opened his mouth but said nothing.

‘So…’ Detective Dixon leaned forward, pushing his face towards Rupert’s, till there was only a whisper of air between them. ‘What do you say? Given that you didn’t do it and he did, don’t you think it’d be best to make a statement against him, before I give him the chance to do the same against you?’

‘You can’t do that,’ Rupert protested. ‘You’re not allowed. That’s illegal. It’s – you wouldn’t.’

‘Oh, no?’ Detective Dixon dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Watch me.’

Chapter Sixteen

‘Would you have done it?’ Olive asked. ‘Really?’

Hugo gave her a wry smile. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘That’d be immoral, and I like to think I’d never stoop that low. But he didn’t know that, did he?’

Olive grinned back. ‘Nice technique.’

‘I told you so.’ Hugo winked. ‘I have my ways.’

‘Yes,’ Olive said. ‘You certainly do.’

‘And you,’ – he doffed an invisible cap to her in deference – ‘have rather impressive techniques of your own.’

‘Why thank you.’

‘In fact, if you wanted a career in law enforcement, I’d hire you in a heartbeat.’

‘Is that why you’re letting me come along now? You’re preparing me for a role as a female police officer?’ Olive asked. ‘I can’t say as I’ve seen one of those before.’

‘They aren’t common,’ Hugo admitted. ‘But they’re becoming more so. The Police Force is an archaic and ancient institution and, like all archaic and ancient institutions, is still set very much in the past. Rather like this institution here,’ – he nodded up at King’s College – ‘although I believe they even admitted their first female fellow two years ago. So progress is being made.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Olive laughed. ‘Such great progress.’

‘Slow to be sure,’ Hugo said. ‘But better than nothing is the best that can be said about it, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ Olive agreed. ‘I suppose so.’

They crossed King’s Parade and, when they reached the college, the Junior Porter opened the gate without being asked. Detective Dixon stepped inside first, followed closely by Olive.

‘I’ve dispatched Constables Smith and Cooper to bring Mr Buckingham into the station,’ he said as they entered the Porter’s Lodge. ‘I’ve got someone else I need to visit first.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss Crisp.’ Mr Bennett came out of the lodge to greet her. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?’

‘I brought you these.’ Olive proffered a box. ‘Four of the freshest and most delicious almond croissants. And I’ll be bringing you the very same every day till you retire.’

Mr Bennett beamed. ‘A true kindness.’ He put his hand to his chest. ‘What can I say but thank you?’

Olive smiled. ‘One good turn and all that. And thank you.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re thanking me for, Miss Crisp,’ he said. ‘Or what I’ve done to deserve it. But I’d be an unmitigated fool to say no to such an offer.’

Olive nodded, honouring their silent pact that last night had never happened. She could hardly believe it had only been the night before that she’d been hiding in Rupert’s wardrobe. So much had happened since.

‘Would you wait here for me?’ Detective Dixon asked. ‘I need to pay a quick visit to the Dean before I return to the station and charge Mr Buckingham. I won’t be long.’

‘Of course,’ Olive said. ‘I’ll wait with Mr Bennett. I have a few questions about his youth and a certain Miss Millicent Burrows that he can politely decline to answer.’

‘Alright then,’ Hugo said, sounding slightly perplexed. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

Olive smiled again, slipping her arm through Mr Bennett’s. ‘Take your time.’ She patted his arm. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask if I might call you George?’

‘If you keep bringing me these pastries,’ he said with a wink. ‘You can call me anything you wish.’

Detective Dixon entered the Dean’s offices without knocking. He’d strode nearly halfway across the room – a sumptuous suite of Persian rugs and mahogany antiques upholstered in leather – before the Dean looked up from the papers spread across his vast oak desk.

‘Excuse me!’ The Dean stood. ‘Just who are you and what do you think you’re doing barging in like this?’

‘You don’t recognise me?’ Hugo smiled. ‘I’d have thought that lying to an officer of the law might have had more of an impact on your conscience. But then perhaps it’s something you’ve done so often that you don’t even register it anymore.’

The Dean folded his arms. He wore a tweed suit, scholar’s robes and the silver sheen to his tie intentionally brought out the silver in his thick hair. The whole ostentatious effect perfectly brought together by the diamond flashing in his gold tie-pin. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about and, since you’ve not been invited, I’ll kindly ask you to leave.’

But the detective shook his head. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

The Dean frowned. ‘Knew what?’

‘That one of those boys pushed Jack Witstable off the roof.’ Detective Dixon sized up the Dean. ‘You probably knew which one and you might even have known why, but then I don’t suppose the motive bothered you too much, did it? Only the cover-up.’ He sighed. ‘I should have realised at the time. Their stories were all too straight, too neat. But it wasn’t until I heard about the Loki and Pan Society and their penchant for stealing diamonds, then saw Mr Middleton wearing the very same tie-pin to dinner that you’re wearing now.’

Without thinking, the Dean’s hand went to his throat. ‘That’s hardly evidence,’ he said quickly. ‘Merely coincidence.’

‘Perhaps,’ the detective conceded. ‘But I’m betting that every one of those boys owns one too and then I think “mere coincidence” will be a little harder to claim, don’t you?’

‘Get out.’ The Dean’s tone was bitter, his mouth a thin line. ‘Get out now.’

‘When I interviewed you first, you’d seduced me with all this’ - Hugo swept his hand to encompass the room, the building, the college - ‘your authority, your dignity, your distinction. And I let it fool me into thinking that with it came morality, virtue, decency… But you only behave like true gentlemen with each other, don’t you? Shaking hands and patting backs while standing on the heads of those like poor Jack Witstable.’

‘What rot,’ the Dean said. ‘What ridiculous nonsense. How dare you come in here spouting these wild accusations which have absolutely no basis in fact and–’

‘The boy is going to confess,’ the detective said. ‘I’ve got evidence that will crack apart their conspiracy of silence and lies. And when he does, I’ll make damn sure that he implicates you into the bargain. And I don’t think the other parents and governors will be too understanding about it, not once–’

‘Understanding?’ The Dean spat out the word, for the first time looking ruffled, his poise shaken. ‘Understanding? Who do you think instigates these matters, who do you think insists and expects me to deal with these unfortunate situations? You think these alumni make massive donations out of the goodness of their hearts? It comes with strings. Money always comes with strings. And I… I am merely the puppet.’

Hugo held the man’s gaze for a moment, impressed, despite himself, by the eloquence of the defence. Then he smiled. ‘Nice try. And while that might work with the governors, I’m afraid it won’t stand up in court.’

Chapter Seventeen

Olive was still standing with George, formerly known as Mr Bennett, when she saw Charles Buckingham for the first time. He had his head down, so she could hardly see his handsome, arrogant face, and his arms behind his back and he walked between the two police officers escorting him along the path.

Olive wanted to say something, something significant and meaningful, something that would make him regret what he’d done to Grace, to Jack. But she couldn’t think of anything. She had no words for such cruelty.

The Head Porter, so used to greeting every student as they came and went, opened his mouth – the “Sir” hovering on his lips – then closed it again.

And so, Mr Buckingham walked out of King’s College for the final time, without acknowledgement. Ignored, disregarded, demeaned. Just as he had done to those he’d hurt so dreadfully. And that, for now, was something.

The rest was to come.

Chapter Eighteen

‘I still wish you hadn’t put yourself at such risk,’ Hugo said. ‘Hiding in his wardrobe! What were you thinking? What if he  had been the killer? He might have killed you too!’

Olive laughed. ‘Yes, it was a little rash, I’ll admit.’

‘A little?’

She smiled. ‘I promise I’ll be more careful next time.’

Hugo raised an eyebrow. ‘Next time?’

Olive laughed again. ‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say?’

‘Because,’ Hugo clarified. ‘I’m incredulous.’

They were walking along King’s Parade towards The Biscuit Tin; rather more slowly than was warranted due to the fact that the detective was needed back at the station to question a murder suspect, and the café owner was needed back at the café to serve a queue of waiting customers. Still they dawdled like two school sweethearts reluctant to leave each other’s company.

‘Well, if you’re planning on helping me – unofficially – solve more crimes,’ Hugo said. ‘Then you might want to hire someone to help you in the café, otherwise you’ll have plenty of disappointed customers on your hands.’

‘Yes,’ Olive agreed. ‘I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve got the perfect person in mind. I just need to ask.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Olive smiled. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see. Do you fancy popping over now? I’ve got coffee and Bakewell tarts…’

Hugo hesitated and Olive wondered, as he did so, whether or not the café would welcome him or not. Would her ancestors sense that her heart was in jeopardy and shut him out? Olive thought of her mother and grimaced slightly.

‘Actually, I should probably get along,’ she said quickly, as they reached the corner that turned onto Bene’t Street. ‘People to feed and all that…’

Hugo nodded, though he looked disappointed. ‘Yes, I should go too,’ he conceded. ‘People to interrogate, tedious paperwork to fill out and all that…’

Olive nodded.

Hugo nodded again.

‘Well, then…’

‘Well, then…’

Hugo looked at Olive.

Olive looked at her shoes.

‘But, perhaps…’ Hugo began.

Olive looked up.

‘Perhaps I’ll be passing by tomorrow,’ he finished. ‘I could pop in for a cup of tea and a slice of something sweet then.’

Olive gave him a slow smile, crossing her fingers that he’d have no trouble opening the door. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there. Of course,’ she added, feeling a little foolish for having stated the obvious.

Hugo smiled back, as if he hadn’t noticed she’d said anything silly at all. ‘It’s nice,’ he said. ‘Always knowing where I can find you, if I ever…’ Now he studied his shoes. ‘Um, need to see you … about something.’

‘Something,’ Olive echoed. ‘Right… ’ Did she feel a shift in the air, she wondered. Might he be about to kiss her? ‘Well, anything you need, a murder solved or a cake baked, I’ll be at The Biscuit Tin.’

‘I won’t forget it.’

Still Hugo hesitated and still Olive waited, feeling her pulse start to race with anticipation – though from anxiety or excitement (or both) she couldn’t quite tell.

‘I…’ Olive searched for words to fill the increasingly awkward silence. Why, when one was in real need a bit of banter, a little sparklingly witty repartee, one never had it to hand? Why, when one needed to say something – anything – one’s mind was always blank? ‘I…’

Hugo looked at her again and Olive longed for the ability to know what he was thinking. If only she was psychic, like her great-aunt Esmeralda. Such a skill would’ve come in awfully handy at a time like this. Sadly, though, she could only guess at his thoughts and, if eyes were the windows to the soul, then Hugo’s large blue eyes were giving nothing away. Olive wondered what hers were showing.

Hugo leaned in towards her then, just as Olive was about to close her eyes, a nervous look crossed his face and he pulled away again.

‘I…’ Hugo began. ‘I'll see you tomorrow then.’

‘Yes.’ Olive nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

And then she watched him hurry away – heart thudding, pulse racing – feeling more like a teenager than she had in twenty-five years, since actually being one.

Chapter Nineteen

When Olive arrived at the café, Millicent and Blythe were waiting outside. Upon seeing her, they exploded with delighted relief. Still locked inside the shop, Biscuit started barking wildly, wanting to join the fray. Olive’s friends pulled her into a great big hug.

‘You’re here!’ Millicent exclaimed. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

‘Oh, Olive!’ Blythe cried. ‘Where on earth have you been? We were just about to call the police.’

Olive laughed. ‘Well then you would’ve found me, because that’s where I’ve been.’

‘You have?’

‘What happened?’

Fumbling for her keys, Olive opened the door to let Biscuit bound out.

‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘Well done for waiting for me so well - I think you deserve a buttermilk blueberry scone, don’t you?’

Biscuit yapped with approval, dancing around everyone’s legs as they tumbled into the café. Olive flipped over the “open” sign while her friends sat at their favourite table by the window and Millicent lifted the spaniel into her lap, stroking her ears.

‘Sit,’ Blythe ordered. ‘Sit and tell us everything.’

‘Yes,’ Millicent said. ‘But first scones and tea for all, then tell us everything.’

‘Excellent idea,’ Olive agreed as she sank into the third chair. ‘And I give you full permission to go behind the counter and do the honours. Because today I ran from here to the police station and am utterly exhausted.’

‘Ran?!’ Millicent and Blythe exclaimed in unison. ‘You ran?!’

Olive let out a long sigh. ‘I had no choice. My bike had a puncture. But never again. Never again.’

‘Alright, this I have to hear.’ Millicent passed Biscuit over to Olive then stood and walked behind the counter to begin preparing a pot of tea and a plate of pastries.

‘Okay then.’ Olive sat back. ‘When we’re all sitting comfortably, I’ll begin.’

Hours later, when her friends had left, regrettably, to return to their own shops, and Olive had cleaned everything up and flipped the “closed” sign on the café door, she sat down with Biscuit at her feet and the tarot cards in her lap. Now that the cards had helped her solve the mystery of Jack Witstable’s death, she wanted them to solve another mystery, one inside her own mind. And about her own life.

‘Am I falling in love with Hugo Dixon?’ She asked as she shuffled the cards. ‘Will I ever be in a relationship? Will I ever have a child?’

Olive shuffled and shuffled, asking the questions over and over again. She hadn’t told her friends everything, not about the romantic feelings she seemed to be developing, not about the conflicting desires she seemed to be having. It was all too much – too complicated – for now. She needed to sort it out (at least a little) in her own mind before she started discussing it ad nauseam with them. And so, Olive just kept shuffling. Until, at last, she stopped and slowly laid out the top three cards on the table.

The Lovers. The Sun. The Three of Cups.

Olive smiled and let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. It was, by any measure, an auspicious reading: love, hope, new beginnings, fertility, friendship, celebration… Which must mean that the handsome detective would be bringing all of those things into her life. Wouldn’t it?

For the cards were always right.

Weren’t they…?

THE END

Recipe for Bakewell Tart

If Olive Crisp didn't own The Biscuit Tin, I'm certain she would spend a great deal of time in Fitzbillies and the Bakewell tart would be one of her favourite treats. It's certainly one of mine and I've spent, and continue to spend, a great deal of time in Fitzbillies myself. I've written several of my novels there, fuelled by their delicious pastries and cakes. The cafe (and some of its staff) has also featured in The Witches of Cambridge and Night of Demons & Saints. If you're ever in Cambridge, England, I highly recommend a visit! Along with a trip to Jack's Gelato, which serves the best ice cream in the world.

Fitzbillies Bakewell Tart

This recipe can be found on pgs 142 & 146 of the Fitzbillies recipe book by Alison Wright & Tim Hayward. It contains a great many other delicious recipes too.

1 batch of sweet pastry

6 medium eggs

250g caster sugar

250g ground almonds

250g unsalted butter, melted. Plus extra for greasing

100g raspberry jam

125g fresh raspberries

30g flaked almonds

plain flour, for dusting

Make a batch of sweet pasty (see below). Chill in the fridge for an hour or more.

Preheat the oven to 185oc (165oc fan) and grease and flour a loos-bottomed 28cm tart tin.

Beat together the eggs and sugar in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Add the ground almonds and melted butter and mix until combined.

Remove the pastry from the fridge. If it's been there a long time, e.g. overnight, get it out half an hour before so that it comes to room temperature. Lightly flour a surface and roll out the pastry until it's a few inches wider than the tin. Ensure it doesn't stick by moving it around gently as you work and keeping the surface well floured.

Roll the pastry over the rolling pin and then place it over the tart tin. Gently press into the sides, then trim the top edge all the way around with a sharp knife. Prick the base with a fork. Blind bake for 15-20 minutes until lightly golden – you don't want to overtake the edges, but nor do want a soggy bottom.

Spread the raspberry jam onto the base of the tart and sprinkle the whole raspberries over it. Pour the almond mixture over the jam and raspberries, then sprinkle with the flaked almonds.

Put the tart in the oven (on a baking sheet in case of any overflowing or spills) and bake for 40 minutes until the mixture rises and is golden. Serve warm or cold, with clotted cream.

Sweet Pastry Recipe

85g unsalted butter

85g baking margarine

60g caster sugar

1 medium egg, beaten

255g plain flour, plus extra for dusting

¼ tsp salt

Mix together the butter, margarine and caster sugar in a bowl, but do not cream. Mix in the egg.

Add the flour and salt and mix until combined. If it doesn't come together after a minute, add a little water (a teaspoon at a time) until it comes together.

Form into a ball, wrap in cling film and chill for an hour before use.

Preview of The Biscuit Tin Murders #2: A Body in the Graveyard

Chapter One

Cambridge. 1st October, 1970

‘Early again? That’s the fourth day in a row. Grace, you’re a marvel!’ Olive declared as the young woman bustled into the cafe, scarf wrapped tight and duffle coat buttoned to the neck against the autumn winds. At her entry, Biscuit, Olive’s spaniel, barked delightedly and encircled both pairs of feet with tail wagging so vigorously it might be in danger of injury.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Grace bent down to stroke the dog before beginning to unwrap her scarf and unbutton her coat. ‘This is my favourite place in the world. I’d sleep here if I could.’

‘I’ve only got the one bedroom upstairs, I’m afraid.’ Olive laughed. ‘Otherwise you’d be most welcome. Then you could help with the morning’s baking.’

‘Oh, I’d love to. Please,’ Grace begged as she fumbled with her buttons. ‘May I?’

‘You might want to take your gloves off first,’ Olive suggested gently. ‘It’d make that task a little easier.’

‘Oh yes, of course, silly me.’ Grace pulled off her mittens with her teeth, holding them in her mouth to shrug off her oversized coat and hang it, along with her scarf on the hat stand beside the front door.

‘Another month working here and I might just be able to fatten you up enough to see you through winter,’ Olive said as she eyed Grace's still-skinny frame. ‘Buttered crumpets for breakfast every day ought to do it, plus three types of cake for tea.’

Grace giggled. ‘I’ll eat all your profits.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ Olive said. ‘You’re worth twice your weight in gold, let alone cake.’

When she’d hired Grace to help out in The Biscuit Tin, it’d been as a favour to support her after the trauma she’d suffered that spring. Yet the girl had proved not only invaluable, hardworking and adored by customers, as a member of staff but had become a good friend into the bargain. Olive was pleased to see that Grace, in turn, had thrived in her role, becoming a little rounder and a little happier with each passing day.

‘I’m taking Biscuit for a walk,’ Olive said. ‘Are you alright to watch the cafe while I’m gone?’ Grace nodded eagerly. ‘Excellent. So, there’s a batch of Bakewell tarts in the oven that need to come out in ten minutes, along with two trays of apple crumble cakes and a few dozen almond pastries cooled and ready to put out on the counter…’

‘Leave it with me,’ Grace said, already heading towards the counter. ‘I’ll have everything ready before we open.’

‘I’ve said it before, no doubt I’ll say it again…’ Olive lifted Biscuit’s lead from the hat stand and clipped it on. ‘But you are a bloody marvel, my dear. And we are very lucky to have you.’

‘Likewise.’ Grace turned to give Olive a shy smile. ‘A hundred times over.’

For their morning walks, Olive let Biscuit take them wherever she wished to go, turning down streets and alleyways at random, while Olive let her thoughts wander along with her feet. She liked not having to be responsible, for once, not worrying about what she needed to control or which direction to take. She had enough of that pressure at the cafe, though less so now that she had Grace to share the burden a little. For her part, Biscuit was thrilled by the new state of things. It meant that she was no longer rushed along, tugged away from every intriguing lamppost and wall in her mistress’s haste to get back to work but instead allowed to sniff away at whatever she wished to her heart’s content. Happy days.

Today, Biscuit ambled along King’s Parade, following a scent trail she recognised as one of her favourite park companions: a rather attractive golden labrador of mature years who’d been unfortunate enough to have bestowed upon him the slightly humiliating moniker of Lord Tuffington. Sometimes, Biscuit didn’t know what humans were thinking and considered herself lucky to have such a sensible mistress.

Following the scent past St Catherine’s College, pausing to pick up the enticing whiff of fried bacon drifting out of their kitchen window, Biscuit trotted along to cross Silver Street and, spotting the stone walls of Little St. Mary’s Church and, alongside that, the entrance to a tiny and very pretty graveyard - one of Olive’s favourite’s - she hurried past Pembroke College and towards the iron gate so they might enjoy its twisting cobbled paths, overhanging trees and ivy-blanketed stones.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ Olive said, shaking herself free of her thoughts as Biscuit came to a halt at the gate. ‘You’ve brought us here. One of my favourite places.’

Biscuit barked twice, as if to say “of course” and “you’re welcome”, while Olive lifted the catch and opened the gate. Since no-one was likely to be frequenting the graveyard, with the possible exception of the vicar, who was anyway very fond of Biscuit, Olive slipped the lead from the spaniel’s neck to let her roam free. And, while Biscuit scampered off, Olive strolled more sedately through the gardens of the tiny graveyard, glancing at the names and dates on the stones, imagining the life stories that might accompany them.

It’d lately occurred to Olive that she might start writing stories of her own, tales about the crimes she’d been solving recently. People enjoyed such stories, she thought, if the efforts of Ms Christie were anything to go by. Blythe had recently lent her copies of several Poirot novels and she’d enjoyed them immensely. The detective himself was too much of a snob for Olive’s tastes but she liked to think that he’d approve of her cafe if he was ever to frequent it. She’d bake him Belgium custard buns and he’d feel just at home. How she’d manage to find the time to actually write these stories, of course, was another matter. Although, now she had Grace to help out it might be possible. Perhaps she ought to teach the girl some of her secret family recipes. And, though Olive worried that her ancestors might not approve of such a move, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

Olive’s thoughts continued to meander in such absent and curious directions while she walked, enjoying the soft early morning sunlight through the leaves dappling the path as she went. Olive was just wondering what type of cake Miss Marple might favour when she heard Biscuit’s frantic barking around the corner. Olive knew well the wide variety of Biscuit’s barks and could easily decode them: food, walk, play, affection… The spaniel’s needs were few and simple, predictable too, given that Olive could usually set her watch by when she wanted to be walked, fed and cuddled.

But this bark was different. It was one Olive rarely heard. It meant danger.

Olive never ran, not if she could possibly help it, but she ran now. Picking up her long, flowered skirt, she ran as fast as she could - which was, admittedly, not very fast - more of a frantic shuffle than a sprint, in the direction of Biscuit’s increasingly agitated yelps. Darting past the headstones but still sticking to the paths (it’d be unconscionable, she felt, to actually step across the graves, no matter the circumstances) till she finally rounded the corner of the church that led to the little garden and benches along the south side.

‘Biscuit!’ Olive called, suddenly panicking that perhaps her dog was being dog-napped. ‘Bics, I-I’m coming, Bics!’

When the first thing Olive saw was her beloved spaniel alive and well, alone and unmolested by kidnappers, she exhaled a deep sigh of relief and, blinking back tears, felt a little silly for having worked herself up into such a state.

‘Oh, B-Bics,’ she gasped, leaning against a bench to catch her breath while Biscuit had her muzzle and front paws pressed inside the shrubbery, her tail wagging ferociously. ‘Th-there you are. Th-thank goodness for that.’

It wasn’t until she’d fully recovered her equilibrium, released her life-grip on the bench and started walking over to where Biscuit stood, still barking, that she realised she’d been wrong about one thing. For, while her dog was, certainly, alive and well and untouched by kidnappers, she was not alone. Very far from it, in fact. For, protruding between her paws was a pair of feet.

‘Oh!’ Olive exclaimed as soon as she registered the sight. ‘Oh!’

It was probably an unfortunate chap without a home or bed for the night, she thought, such as she sometimes saw sleeping in the doorways of shops and would bring offerings of hot coffee and leftover cakes. On very cold evenings Olive would even invite them, those she knew well, to sleep on blankets on the café floor. Although, she realised as she approached, that the shoes did not suggest a man of little means, but one quite well-monied, so it was more likely to be a student who’d been revelling into the wee small hours and then, mistaking the church for his college, given up looking and passed out among the bushes. It might even be the vicar, for his body was entirely concealed within the shrubbery and it was no secret that he frequently enjoyed rather more than his fair share of communion wine, and could often be found sleeping off the effects on the wide variety of church benches happily fit for the purpose. Indeed, Olive now found herself wondering, as she stepped closer, if it was certainly possible that he’d acquired the plethora of benches for that very reason.

Whoever it was, Olive thought, as she now peered down at the feet - large and clad in highly polished brogues - they must be very drunk indeed to be sleeping through the racket that Biscuit was still making.

‘Hush,’ Olive patted the spaniel’s head. ‘Hush, girl. It’s all right. I’m here.’

Tentatively, Olive bent down and wiggled the left foot.

‘Hey, there,’ she said. ‘Sorry to wake you. I’m just checking that you’re all right.’

Because there was, of course, the possibility that the drunkard was injured and in need of medical attention. There was even the possibility - which Olive was right now not allowing herself to entertain - that he was past the need for a medic and only in need of a mortician.

‘Hello,’ Olive said, a little louder. ‘Hello? Are you all right?’

Wiggling the foot more vigorously still, Olive felt her heart start to race - as if she was running again - and her breath catch in her throat. There was, alas, only one thing for it, she would have to abandon the man’s feet and seek out his head.

Wishing she wasn’t alone with only a small dog for company - where was Detective Dixon when you wanted him? - Olive held her breath and plunged bravely, with Biscuit at her side, into the shrubbery. It took her only a moment to locate the man’s head given that it was, mercifully, still attached to his body. That was, however, the only good thing to be said about the matter. Because it was unfortunately clear, after even a cursory glance, that the man was quite dead. Indeed, given the purplish hue of his lips and the clammy pallor of his skin, it was likely that he’d been dead for quite a while. Certainly hours, possibly even days. Although, on second thoughts, if it’d been that long it wouldn’t only be Biscuit who could smell him.

‘Oh, dear,’ Olive mumbled as she stepped back. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ She glanced down at Biscuit, who looked back up at her mistress with a perpetually curious and ever-trusting doggy gaze. ‘Whatever shall we do now?’

Given that the overgrown shrubbery obscured everything but his face, it was impossible to tell yet, unless one was especially brave - which Olive was not - or particularly discourteous, whether or not his death was due to natural or unnatural causes. Either way it was best, she concluded, to call the police. That this might mean “bumping into” Detective Dixon (or Hugo, as he now insisted she call him, given the number of times he’d frequented The Biscuit Tin for coffee and cake) was simply a bonus.

‘Well, well, fancy seeing you here,’ Hugo said, as he opened the door to his police car and stepped onto the pavement. ‘Of all the people who might accidentally stumble upon a dead body, why am I not at all surprised it was you?’

‘You say that as if I go around looking for them.’ Olive folded her arms, attempting to look affronted but finding it difficult in the face of the detective’s playful smile and friendly blue eyes.

‘Don’t you?’ He retorted. ‘Given the regularity with which you “stumble” upon crimes, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.’

‘I do nothing of the sort,’ Olive huffed, though it was hard to deny that she did seem to get herself entangled in an unusually high number of murders (after the fact) whether by accident or design. ‘I was merely out walking Biscuit. And she was the first to find him, not me.’

Hugo flashed Olive another smile. ‘Did you train her? Like we do on the force.’

‘Certainly not,’ Olive said, while also thinking that this wasn’t a half-bad idea. A crime-sniffing dog would ensure that life remained rather exciting no matter what.

‘Right then, why don’t you take me to the body?’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come to this,’ Olive said as she led Biscuit back towards the little church and its graveyard. ‘Given that we don’t yet know whether it’s a murder or not. It might just be a heart attack or something like that.’ She tried not to sound too disappointed at the suggestion.

‘Yes,’ Hugo agreed. ‘Constable Cooper was keen to come, but given that it was you who called it in I thought I’d come along and say hello.’

Given that he was walking slightly behind her, Hugo missed Olive’s happy grin in response to this statement. She opened the gate and held it so he could follow her through.

‘It’s just around the corner,’ Olive explained. ‘On the south side of the church. Biscuit found him in the bushes. I-I thought it best not to touch the body, just in case.’ This was a plausible explanation, she thought, and preferable to cowardice. For, while Olive relished the potential for solving the mysteries afforded by such events, she was particularly squeamish when it came to details of those deaths. As for blood, she definitely didn’t want to see any blood! If not for that small point, Olive would’ve thought she’d missed her calling as a police officer.

‘Very wise,’ Hugo commended her. ‘It’s always best not to touch anything; you never know what might be a clue - if it’s a murder that is.’

Touched by this compliment, Olive hid her smile.

‘There.’ She pointed to the pair of shod feet protruding from the overgrown shrubbery. ‘That’s where he is.’

Getting close enough to get a look – albeit infuriatingly veiled – at what was going on, but far back enough to give the detective his space, Olive watched as he tried to ascertain whether or not the body had reached its state by fair means or foul. Bending down for a closer inspection, Hugo was silent for several minutes until, finally, he stood and stepped away.

‘Well.’ The detective folded his arms. ‘I can now unequivocally conclude that this was definitely a murder.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Olive asked, feeling her heart start to race again.

‘A few factors,’ Hugo offered. ‘The drag marks around the body suggest he’s been moved after he died, the defence marks on his hands indicate he was probably defending himself from attack, the multiple rips to his shirt imply likewise… Oh, and there’s a bloody great knife sticking out of his chest.’

A bloodied knife. A murder.

This confirmation sparked in Olive a thrill of excitement, quickly followed by a pang of guilt. One must, after all, pause to feel sympathy for the poor unfortunate man who’d been thus assailed. To calm herself, and assume a suitable air of concern, Olive lifted Biscuit into her arms and affected a contrite look as she lowered her head and rested her chin between Biscuit’s ears.

‘So, um, what’ll you do now?’ Olive asked. ‘Find out who he was? His, um …’ She nodded in the direction of the man whose torso remained obscured by the shrubbery. ‘Wallet perhaps?’

Hugo shook his head. ‘No, as I said, touching anything now risks disturbing vital evidence. I’ll call it into the station and get a team down to detail the scene before removing the body. Forensics will search his person before the autopsy. If we’re lucky, he’ll be in possession of identification - even a monogrammed handkerchief will help - if not, then we’ll wait to see if anyone reports a man missing who matches his description. Failing that, we’ll search the database, put out alerts and even posters…’

As the detective continued iterating the long and increasingly arduous steps in the identification process, Olive swallowed a sigh. Impatient by nature, she hated waiting for anything - her birthday, Christmas, the baking of a cake - and right now she longed to simply leap into the bushes and rifle through the man’s pockets. If only she hadn’t been thwarted by both police procedure and her own squeamishness.

‘Sounds like it might take an awfully long time,’ Olive suggested. ‘And meanwhile the murderer could escape, jump on a bus to London and never be seen again.’

‘Unlikely,’ Hugo said, as he began walking away from the body and back in the direction of the street and the waiting police car. ‘Most people are killed by someone they know, usually quite well, and it won’t be easy for anyone with ties to their community to simply up and leave everything they have behind. Also, they didn’t even think to remove the murder weapon, so I doubt we’re dealing with a criminal mastermind here. They’ll probably just lay low and pray we don’t find them.’

‘And we will pray that we do,’ Olive said, casting a longing glance back towards the bushes as they rounded the corner of the little church and left the garden behind.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Hugo said. ‘I don’t find that particular method of catching criminals to be as effective as actual police work. But yes, metaphorically speaking, I suppose so. You don’t recognise the victim, I assume? He wasn’t one of your many loyal fans?’

Olive laughed. ‘Customers, you mean? They’re not fans of mine, they’re fans of my baking and the café.’

‘So you say.’ Hugo smiled. ‘So you say.’

They reached the gate and he held it open. ‘After you.’

‘Thank you.’ Olive was still carrying Biscuit, who never passed up an opportunity to be conveyed from place to place like a Roman emperor. ‘But, to answer your question, no, sadly I don’t recognise him. I know most of my loyal customers by name but I don’t think he’s ever visited The Biscuit Tin.’

‘Then, not to speak ill of the dead,’ Hugo said. ‘But he clearly had very poor taste.’

Olive laughed. ‘Perhaps he just didn’t like sugar. More of a savoury man. Anyway, judging by the twig-like ankles, it looks like he didn’t really eat much of anything at all.’

‘True enough,’ Hugo agreed. ‘True enough.’

Olive eyed him. ‘What?’

‘What do you mean, what?’ Hugo reached the police car and, pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, opened the door.

‘You’ve got that distracted look,’ Olive said. ‘When you’ve stopped properly listening to what I’m saying because you’re too busy thinking.’

‘Oh, really?’ Hugo smiled. ‘I didn’t realise I was quite so obvious. Nor that you were quite so observant.’

Olive sniffed. ‘I bet I’m just as observant as most of your officers, twice as observant as some. That Constable Cooper, for instance, is a-’

‘Half-wit,’ Hugo finished. ‘Yes, I know. But his father plays golf with the Chief of Police, so there’s not much to be done about that.’

Olive set Biscuit down on the pavement. ‘So, um, what will you do after you’ve called it in?’

‘Wait for them to arrive.’ Hugo shrugged. ‘Not much else to do except ensure that no other members of the public accidentally wander into a crime scene. And’ - he gave Olive a knowing look - ‘ensure that one particularly curious one doesn’t decide to nip back and search the victim for his identification papers.’

‘Oh!’ Olive’s exclamation of outrage was so sharp that Biscuit pricked up her ears and looked up in case her mistress was in distress. ‘That’s outrageous. I can’t believe you’d suspect me of doing something so…’

‘Indecent?’ Hugo offered. ‘Immoral? Unconscionable? No, what was I thinking? A fine upstanding citizen like yourself would never dream of expressly contravening police procedure now, would you?’

‘No,’ Olive huffed, annoyed at proving so transparent herself. ‘I certainly would not.’ She took a deep breath to regroup. ‘I was merely asking because it’s early and, since you’ve probably not had breakfast yet, I was going to offer to bring you a cup of coffee and one of those Bakewell tarts you love. That’s all. But if you’re not interested, then…’ She feigned walking away. ‘Come on, Biscuit, let’s go back to the café where we’re appreciated.’

‘Hold on!’ Hugo declared. ‘Hold on! Let’s not be so hasty.’ He reached out towards her but, just before he touched her arm, dropped his hand. Olive felt a stab of disappointment. ‘Bakewell tarts, you say?’

‘Yes.’ Olive shrugged. ‘But perhaps I should save those for my “fans”, don’t you think? It’d be a shame to let them down.’

‘Nonsense,’ Hugo said. ‘No one’s a bigger fan than me.’

‘Oh?’ Olive smiled.

‘Of your café, of course.’ He averted his gaze. ‘And your… baking.’

‘Right.’ Olive nodded, delighted to have once more regained the upper hand. ‘Yes, of course.’ She winked. ‘In that case, I’ll prove what an upstanding citizen I am by doing my civic duty and bringing our dedicated city detective his breakfast.’

Acknowledgements

As ever, deepest thanks to all my family and friends, especially those who kindly indulge me far too often in my endless wittering about all things literary and culinary… And special thanks this time around to the following: Emily Winslow for all your brilliant (and bountiful) insights and crime knowledge; invaluable for my first foray into the genre. Alice Jago, for your unsurpassed eagle eye and deep generosity. Ova Ceren for your unwavering encouragement and invaluable support. Natalie Adams Perrin for all the invaluable cover consultation, along with reading and listening – please visit again soon. Also, always and ever, huge thanks to the magnificent Laurie Robertson, agent extraordinaire – I’m grateful every day for everything you do!

About the Author

Menna van Praag was born in Cambridge, England and studied Modern History at Oxford University. Her first novella - an autobiographical tale about a waitress who aspires to be a writer - Men, Money & Chocolate has been translated into 26 languages. Her five magical realism novels are all set among the colleges, cafes, and bookshops of Cambridge. The Biscuit Tin Murder series is set in the same magical Cambridge setting in the 1970s.

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Also by the Author

Men, Money & Chocolate

The House at the End of Hope Street

The Dress Shop of Dreams

The Witches of Cambridge

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

The Sisters Grimm

The Night of Demons & Saints

Child of Earth & Sky

The Biscuits Tin Murders