by Nancy Warren
The verger brought in a case of bottled water and passed bottles around while we waited. People looked at their watches or at the round clock on the wall that seemed to hold onto time and then burp it out jerkily. The only one who seemed unconcerned was Rafe, as though he had all the time in the world, which, of course, he did.
It was Ian who came to our table, whether by chance or design I wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry such a shocking thing should happen as you were enjoying a cup of tea.” No doubt he’d said that to every person he’d interviewed.
“It was awful,” I agreed.
He nodded and opened the notebook. “Lucy, I’ll start with you. I think I know most of it but let’s go through it again for the official record. I need your full name, date of birth, address and contact information. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for official identification.”
“Of course,” I reached for my purse. I wondered what Rafe would do for ID. He was one who tended to keep to the shadows. Did he have such a mundane thing as a driver’s license or passport? He calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a perfectly modern-looking wallet containing perfectly legitimate looking ID. Our gazes connected and he gave me the ghost of a wink.
After these preliminaries, Ian asked me to describe everything I’d seen. “Take your time.”
What had I seen? “It was all a bit of a jumble. Let me think.” I tried to think of every detail I remembered. “The man who died, Colonel Montague, was very rude about his tea. That’s how I know his name, you see. He called the waitress over, in a very loud voice, because she’d brought him the wrong tea. He wanted Earl Grey and he got the fruit tea that was meant for Bessie Yang, the yoga teacher.
“One of the ladies at the next table recognized his voice and called him by his name. I think her name was Miss Everly. She and her friends were here for a funeral of one of their college chums.” I realized I was rambling. It was difficult to focus when my mind kept skipping out on rational thought to “Oh, my God, that old man died right in front of me!” I didn’t say that out loud, but the jittery feelings were messing with my concentration.
Ian didn’t check me or try to curtail my blathering. He looked at me calmly as though everything I had to say was fascinating and somehow that helped steady me.
Rafe, sitting there so cold and controlled, also helped and I was able to shut out the nervous chatter and question-and-answer interviews going on around me and try to focus on helping the police find out who did this terrible thing.
I took a deep breath and glanced over at Bessie, sitting a couple of tables ahead of us. She was another oasis of calm in the midst of this dreadful experience and I tried to imagine I was in one of her yoga classes, right here on a Tuesday night or a Saturday morning and her calm, low voice was saying, “There is only you and your mat.” I closed my eyes and let the scene I had witnessed play like a movie.
“When we came in, the colonel and the woman I assumed was his wife were already seated at the table. Then those four ladies arrived. Miss Florence Watt and her—” I hesitated, looking for the right word, “Her friend arrived soon after that. They stopped at our table and chatted for a few moments. Then they sat at the table in the window.”
“The one beside Colonel Montague’s.”
“That’s right. The waitress, Katya, took our order and went back into the kitchen.” I had contemplated telling him about the animosity between the two Miss Watts and decided it was irrelevant. “She came back to take Miss Watt and her friend’s order and after she did so Colonel Montague called her over to complain that he’d been given the wrong tea. He said it was fruit and he’d ordered—” I stopped myself again. “Sorry. I already told you that.”
“It’s all right. Better you tell me things twice than leave something out.” He was so calm, so reassuring, so nice. I smiled gratefully and went back to my recital.
“Katya took away his tea and the honey, gave it to Bessie and went back to the kitchen. She returned with a new pot of tea for him. He complained that he’d already finished his scone, but he took it anyway.”
“You saw him drink the tea?”
I closed my eyes. He’d been in my line of vision, but I wasn’t very interested in whether a grumpy old man drank his tea or not. However, as I concentrated I remembered the way he’d been silhouetted against the window. I had definitely seen him. “Yes. I saw him drinking it. He took a sip and then made a face and added more sugar.”
I paused, trying to remember things in order. “Then, Katya took a champagne afternoon tea over to Miss Watt and Mr. Pettigrew’s table.”
“Do you know what kind of tea they had?”
“Florence Watt had English Breakfast and Gerald Pettigrew ordered Earl Grey.” I remembered the pantomime of tea sniffing and switching. “They got each other’s teas and switched.” I sighed. “The new waitress is having trouble remembering which table goes by which number and who ordered what. She’s new.”
He wasn’t writing much down, mostly just listening. I imagine he’d already heard all of this. He asked, “And did you get what you ordered?”
I was happy to tell him that Katya, in our case at least, had made no mistakes and recited our order to him.
“Did you see anyone else go up to Colonel Montague’s table?”
“Miss Everly spoke to him. She got out of her seat and they shook hands and then I think she spoke to his wife. But I didn’t see anyone else go near the table except Miss Watt who, of course, checks with everyone at least once to make sure they’re happy and, I think, brought them their bill. But people do walk around, coming and going, looking for the bathroom.”
“Did you see the colonel take any kind of medication?”
I shook my head. “No. But I didn’t watch him continuously.” I’d been much more interested in the drama playing out between the Miss Watts.
“Did you see what he had to eat?”
“No. As I said, he’d already been served when we got there. It was only the fuss over the tea that made me notice him it all. Though he did say he’d already finished his scone when she finally brought him the correct tea.”
“It was definitely the young Polish girl who served him?”
“Yes. Though we’re not sure she is Polish.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I told him how peculiar she had acted when Rafe spoke Polish to her.
Ian glanced between the two of us. He turned to Rafe, who looked resigned and slightly bored. “You speak Polish?”
“Yes. Not like a native, perhaps, but well enough to get by.” Ian was still looking at him curiously and the vampire said, “I have an interest in languages. And, of course, it helps in my work.”
Ian looked over to where Katya and her brother stood together in a corner drinking bottled water. A uniformed cop stood with them and Ian caught his eye and beckoned him over. He asked the constable to bring Katya to our table, and, after glancing at Rafe, she spoke in a low voice to her brother. He nodded and they both came to our table.
The girl looked sullen and, I thought, scared, while her brother walked with bravado. He reminded me of the muscle builders in my gym back home in Boston who swaggered around with bowlegged insouciance, lifting the heaviest weights they could while looking at themselves in the mirror. I understood it was for checking their form, but I’ve always suspected a deep streak of narcissism in the practice.
The pair sat down as Ian directed them to, across the table from each other. He shifted around so he had a clear view of both their faces. He told them he’d need to take their full names and addresses and would like to see official identification.
The two shared a glance and the brother said, “We did not bring any with us. It is in the flat.” His accent was as heavy as Katya’s. For a brother and sister, they didn’t look much alike. He was much better looking than she was, with big gray-blue eyes fringed with dark, curly lashes that any woman would kill for, rugged bone structure and a full-lipped mouth. When he saw me studying him, he smi
led at me. Even his teeth were good. Big and white as though he’d happily take a bite out of me. His cheeky grin suggested I’d enjoy it.
“Someone will escort you home later and we’ll get it then. Now, I understand you’re from Poland?”
Once more that furtive glance that they shared and they both nodded. Katya began to fidget with her hands, rubbing her thumb over her nails, back and forth like she was going to buff them to a shine. “Whereabouts in Poland?”
“Kraków.”
Ian said, “I’ve never been there. I hear it’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, real nice.”
“And what brings you here?”
He shrugged. “Better opportunities.”
Katya glanced sideways at Rafe once and then dropped her gaze to the table.
Ian said, “I believe you know Kraków quite well, Mr. Crosyer.”
The chef’s Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “I have not been there in some years.”
Rafe smiled. I wondered if that was the smile he gave his victims before he bit them in the neck. I began to feel somewhat sorry for Katya and her brother. “It’s not a city that changes overly much, however. Which neighborhood are you from?”
The young man hesitated and then said, “The eastern part.”
Rafe nodded. “Volzhskiy or Nie mówię po polsku?”
HE MUST KNOW he was sinking fast, but the brother was game to the end. He rubbed the back of his neck. “The second one.”
And then, of course, as had been inevitable from the beginning, Rafe began to speak to him in Polish.
Beside me, the girl cursed, low and under her breath, but it was a very Anglo-Saxon word—not a hint of a Polish accent to be heard.
Her brother replied, “You speak Polish very well, but my sister and I prefer to speak English in this country.”
Rafe appeared to have finished toying with his prey. He smiled and settled back in his chair. “Volzhskiy is in Russia. Near Stalingrad. The second neighborhood I mentioned is actually a phrase that means, ‘I do not speak Polish.’”
Ian took over then and leaned in, looking tougher than I’d ever seen him. I hadn’t known he could do bad cop, but he did it well. “Why don’t you stop wasting my time and tell me who you really are and where you’re from?”
The girl beside me said, “Oh, just tell them, Jim. They know we’re not Poles so there’s no point pretending.” She spoke with an Australian accent and seemed startlingly different when speaking naturally. Her entire face underwent a change and her voice was higher pitched and more pleasant.
The man she called Jim shrugged and opened his hands. He leaned back, retrieving his former bravado. He cracked a grin. “All right. It was a bit of a lark. We’re actors, you see. Wondered if we could take on a couple of roles and stay in character, not for a couple of hours a night on stage, but twenty-four-seven. It was working.”
“Until a man was murdered. After eating food that you prepared.”
Jim leaned in toward Ian and banged his index finger on the table. “I didn’t kill that old geezer. Why would I?”
The detective turned to Katya. “What’s your real name?”
“Katherine Ainsley. But everyone calls me Katie. We kept our stage names close to our real names to make it easier for us.”
“Katie. You were the one who took all the food and tea out to that table. You and Jim had the most access and opportunities to poison Colonel Montague.”
Her eyes widened in fright and she glanced at me as though I might be able to help her. “We didn’t hurt anyone. He was a rude old git, and I might’ve given him a scone I’d dropped on the floor, but I wouldn’t kill him. Why would I?” Jim had asked the same rhetorical question but this time, Ian answered.
“Perhaps you were acting the parts of murderers? To see if you could get away with it, like being Polish.”
Katie shook her head so vehemently I was worried she’d do herself an injury. “I wouldn’t do something like that. Never.”
Jim took her hand and said to Ian. “Look, mate. I told you. It was for a laugh. We weren't hurting anyone. We wouldn’t.”
Ian let the silence get thick. “So, you acted being Polish, did you also pretend to be a professional cook?”
“No. I paid for acting school working in restaurants. I know how to cook and I can certainly do it without poisoning the punters.”
Ian said, “We’ll need a list of places you worked.” He turned to Katie. “And did you put yourself through acting school working in restaurants?”
“No I didn’t.” She was back to being sullen. “It’s terrible work. I’d never do this again. In fact, I told Jim I was going to quit. The work’s backbreaking. The old ladies are nice enough, but they’re demanding too. The fun’s gone out of it. I was planning to quit and find another job.”
I could smell Katie’s sweat. She was terrified. She swallowed noisily. “And we’re not brother and sister. Jim’s my boyfriend.”
Ian asked, “Have either of you been in trouble with the law?” The pair glanced at each other. “We’ll find out easily enough so better to be honest now.”
“No.” Katie said.
“Jim?”
He shifted in his chair. I could see his knee bobbing up and down like he was keeping time to a very fast song. “Did some time in juvie,” he admitted at last. He put on a posh accent and said, “Got in with the wrong crowd.”
Ian sent them off with a uniformed constable. First, they were to be escorted to wherever they lived, their ID fetched, and then to the station where they’d be fingerprinted and interviewed further. “Oh, and you’ll have to surrender your passports.”
“What?” Katie said, looking indignant. “But we haven’t done anything.”
“Until we prove that’s true, we don’t want you getting on a plane and heading back to Sydney.”
“Melbourne,” Jim snapped. “I’ll call my lawyer. And the consulate.”
“Polish or Australian?” Rafe asked smoothly.
Before Jim could snarl whatever answer was forming in his Neanderthal brain, Ian said, “You’re welcome to call anyone you like.”
When the pair had left, I asked Ian, “Do you really think one of them killed the colonel?”
I thought he’d brush off my inappropriate question, but he watched them go, frowning. “I don’t know. They had the most access to the food. But what connection could there be between two actors from Melbourne, Australia, and a retired colonel from Oxford?”
I’d been thinking. “I wonder if he was even the intended victim.”
Both men stared at me and I elaborated. “That poor girl is the most terrible waitress I’ve ever seen. She kept sending the wrong orders to the wrong tables. Colonel Montague could be dead simply because she mistook table two for table seven.”
“Which means,” Rafe said, “the intended victim could be anyone in this room.”
CHAPTER 5
I an picked his notebook up and stood. “If you wouldn’t mind going to the table by the door so the officer there can have a look in your bag, and at what’s in your pockets, then you can go.”
“Of course.”
I picked up my bag off the floor and headed toward the door. A female and a male officer stood behind a table. Both wore gloves. Two ladies were ahead of me waiting for the female officer but the male officer had an empty table in front of him and beckoned Rafe over.
I surreptitiously watched as he emptied his pockets, curious as to what a modern vampire wouldn’t leave home without. It wasn’t much. His wallet and keys. That was it. The officer took a look through his wallet but there was nothing but credit cards, some cash and a few business cards.
He waited for me, presumably so we could walk back to the shop together.
When it was my turn, I gave my name and address to the officer and opened my bag for her. She took a flashlight and peered into my bag. In her other hand she wielded a black plastic stick for separating the items. As she poked around, my knitting ne
edles pushed up out of my bag like skeletal arms.
Then she stopped moving and peered more closely into my bag.
I wished I hadn’t brought my knitting. No doubt she was looking at all the dropped stitches.
I was about to explain that I was just a beginner, when she called, “Sir, can I see you over here?”
At her tone, Ian immediately came over. “What is it?”
He went behind the table, glanced at me curiously and then down into my bag. I wished I were neater and more tidy, like Rafe. There ought to be nothing in my bag but wallet, phone, maybe a lipstick. Not the piles of junk I was sure I’d need, the half packets of mints, old train tickets, used tissues, coins from every country I’d ever visited rattling around on the bottom.
There wasn’t something witchy in there, was there? The thought had my heart stuttering. Ian’s face went very still. He slipped on gloves and reached into my bag and pulled out a newspaper clipping.
“Would you like to explain?”
Sexy cop was gone, bad cop was back with a vengeance as he held up the folded newspaper clipping with Colonel Montague’s photograph on it. The photograph had been defaced by a ball point pen crossed over the man’s face.
If there was a correct response to a police officer showing you incriminating evidence he’d just taken out of your bag, I didn’t know what it was. I think, for a good few seconds, we all stared at the clipping.
Then my frozen brain thawed. “That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before.” My voice sounded high and shrill. I sounded exactly like Katie had when she’d tried to convince us all she was innocent. She must have felt this way, too, as though something hot and heavy was pressing on her lungs.
Ian slipped the newspaper clipping into an evidence bag.
“I’m telling the truth.” I forced my voice to a lower register. “Someone must have put that into my bag.”
I felt all eyes on me. The way everyone had stared at Colonel Montague in his final minutes, now they were focused on me. I felt so hot and flustered I wished I had something on under my sweater so I could pull it off.
