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

She looked up expectantly as I came in.
    “Can I help you, dear?”
    “Um…” I hadn’t prepared a story and was caught off guard. “I was hoping to take a look at the college Matriculation photos.”
    “The archive is not usually open to the public, although access is possible for research or private reasons, if you are a member of the college.”
    “I am a member of the University,” I said, flashing my old University card again. “But… uh… not of this college. It was… er… my uncle who was a member here. He… um… he passed away recently—”
    “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman said, her eyes softening in compassion.
    I winced. I didn’t feel particularly good about lying and playing on the woman’s sympathies. Suddenly I remembered one of the continual arguments Devlin and I used to have as students: he had always been a firm believer in the ends justifying the means, whereas I had always insisted on idealistic ethics. Now, as I thought of how glibly I had lied, I wondered if age and experience had changed me. Maybe I agreed with Devlin after all.
    “Thank you,” I said quickly. “We couldn’t find his Matriculation photo amongst his things and I’d love to see what he looked like as a student. I was hoping I could find him in one of the photos here.”
    “You can order a replacement from Gillman & Soame, you know,” she said. “They keep a wonderful archive.”
    “Er… yes… we’ll probably do that. But I thought—since I was in the neighbourhood—I’d just pop in and see if I could find him here in the college archives…?” I trailed off hopefully.
    The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, certainly. We keep a record of almost everything. The archive holds all the minutes of the college meetings and college clubs and societies, as well as documents related to the college finances and building projects. There are also copies of the college publications and photographs of events in the college history. And of course, we also have a copy of the Matriculation photos from each year, dating back to 1954.” She looked at me enquiringly. “If you give me the year your uncle matriculated, I can help you find it.”
    “Um…”
    Flip! How was I going to get out of this one? The minute she started asking for details like my uncle’s name and year of matriculation, she’d know I was fibbing. To my relief, the phone on her desk rang at that moment and she picked it up. From the sound of the conversation which ensued, there was a problem in the bursar’s office—something to do with missing records.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said as she put the phone back in its cradle. “I have to go and sort this out.” She gave a sigh of exasperation. “This is the fourth time this week they’ve had this issue and I think if I don’t go myself, they will never resolve the problem.”
    “That’s all right.” I gave her my most winning smile. “Maybe I could just take a peek at the photos myself?” I gestured to the other side of the gallery. “Is that them hanging along the walls?”
    “Well…” She looked behind herself doubtfully. “I’m not really supposed to let anyone have access to the gallery unsupervised.” Then she smiled. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine with you. Yes, most of the photos are hanging on the walls, although some of the older ones may be in that cabinet in the far corner. Just please make sure you’re very careful about not rearranging anything—they’ve been painstakingly categorised and ordered.”
    I promised to take great care and, as soon as her footsteps had faded down the stairs, I whisked across the gallery. The photos covered most of the length of the long wall and were hung in chronological order. I paused in front of the first one and hesitated. Where should I start? I had no idea when the American had matriculated. If he had been here as an undergraduate, that would have been about twenty to twenty-five years ago, but if he had come to Oxford to