Read A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) for Free Online

reminder that winter was just around the corner—and I pulled the collar of my duffel coat up around my neck as I followed Cassie down the high street to the local village pub. Once the sun set, the Blue Boar was the place to be—it was the heart of the village and the place where all the locals congregated for a pint and a gossip.
    I pulled the door open and stepped into the warmth, looking around me with appreciation. Like my tearoom, the pub was housed in a 15th-century Tudor house, although with lower ceilings, giving the place an almost cellar-like feel. And instead of a large open space, the interior was filled with cosy nooks and crannies—behind the pillars and around the fireplace—and dominated by a hand-carved, dark mahogany bar in the centre.
    The place was heaving. With the typical English habit of heading straight to the pub after work, this was the busiest time of the evening—and the numbers were swelled by the visiting tourists. Many of them would be staying at the various B&Bs and hotels on the outskirts of the village and probably came here for an authentic English pub experience.
    “Seth said he might meet us here, if he could get away in time…” Cassie scanned the room. “Ah, there he is! And he’s got a couple of seats for us by the window—good on him,” she said with satisfaction.
    “I’ll get the drinks,” I said. “You go and join him first.”
    Cassie nodded and headed across the room. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front of the bar. Brian, the landlord, was busy at the beer tap, his sleeves rolled up to show his beefy arms as he pulled on a lever and filled a glass with foaming amber liquid. 
    He glanced up and gave me a smile. “Gemma! What can I get ya?”
    “Half a cider for Cassie, please, and a shandy for me.”
    “Still a lightweight, eh? I would have thought that living in Australia would’ve cured you of that. On the other hand, Aussie beer…” He made a face. “Maybe I’m not surprised that you’re opting for soft drinks.”
    I laughed. “Hey, the Aussies are pretty proud of their beers.”
    “I stand by my opinion. A beer’s not a beer unless it’s a proper pint of English ale.”
    I smiled, refusing to be drawn into that age-old debate. “Busy here tonight,” I commented, looking around the place.
    He nodded, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. “Aye, a good bunch. A lot of tourists, but.”
    I noticed his eyes were fixed on a particular figure on the other side of the bar and as I followed his gaze, my heart sank as I realised suddenly who it was: the American from that morning. He was standing at the bar with pint of ale in his hand, arguing with another man. From the expression on their faces, it wasn’t a friendly debate. I could see the look of concern in Brian’s eyes. He had been a publican for thirty years and he could recognise trouble brewing.
    “Some of these tourists ought to know when to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered as he pulled the lever and filled Cassie’s half pint, tilting the glass with expert skill so that the foam stopped just short of spilling over the edge. “And some of the locals should learn not to let others wind them up so easily.”
    I looked over at the arguing men again and belatedly recognised the other punter. It was Mike Bailey, one of the local “troublemakers”. He was a belligerent young man in his early twenties, with a tendency to get violent when drunk—which was often. Long acquaintance and respect for his family, who had lived in the area for centuries, had led most of the villagers to ignore Mike’s sullen outbursts and put up with his behaviour. But when his surliness took a physical turn, Brian was quick to kick him off the premises. Cassie had told me that there had been a couple of incidents which had ended in assault charges, but so far, Mike Bailey had managed to stay out of Oxford Prison.
    As I watched, he squared up to the American, jutting his chin out and jabbing a