by V. M. Burns
“Wow.” Lavender stared. “You have to be the bravest person I know.”
I smiled. “Have you met my grandmother?”
Lavender Habersham and I chatted through lunch, and then I felt the butterflies in my stomach as I realized it was time to go to the Torquay Museum.
The Torquay Museum had a large collection of photographs, letters, manuscripts, and memorabilia of their most distinguished resident, Dame Agatha Christie. In addition to Christie’s personal belongings, the museum also included props used in the adaptations of some of her novels for television. Normally, I find things like this over the top, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing Poirot’s desk and the furniture from his London Art Deco apartment. There was even one of the outfits worn in a Miss Marple episode by Joan Hickson and the Hercule Poirot walking stick that actor David Suchet made famous.
After the museum, we took the bus through the Devon countryside to Agatha Christie’s home, Greenway, which was where she wrote many of her famous books and plays. The house also served as the setting for three of her novels. Situated on the River Dart, the white Georgian home sits majestically in the landscape, with gardens that when in bloom must have been amazing. I took lots of pictures and fangirled over the first edition books in the house.
“You’ve taken pictures of every inch of this place,” Nana Jo said.
I nearly jumped when she came up behind me. I was so intent on getting a picture of the frieze that encircled the four walls of the library that I hadn’t noticed her until she spoke. Twelve of the thirteen murals were attributed to American Lt. Marshall Lee of the United States Coast Guard. According to the literature, Christie’s house had been requisitioned by the Coast Guard during World War II.
“I have to figure out a way to incorporate this into one of my books.” I turned to look at my grandmother. “Maybe Lady Elizabeth visits her good friend Agatha and comes to Greenway House.” I had an epiphany. “Ooh, wouldn’t it be great if they solved a mystery together?”
“The timing would be perfect. She and her second husband, Max, bought the house in 1938, which is right around the timeframe for your books.”
My mind raced at the possibilities. Far too soon, our visit to Greenway was over. The bus took us back to the Grand Hotel. Dinner was originally supposed to include a lecture by a local professor and Agatha Christie expert, but the changes in our schedule led to a revision to the plans. Nana Jo and the girls all wanted to hang out at a local pub.
Despite the name, the Hole in the Wall turned out to be a great experience. Opened around 1540, it held the distinction as the oldest pub in Torquay. Cobbled floors and low-beamed ceilings created an ambiance that would have been a perfect meeting place for smugglers, which it had been. Despite the pub’s age and disreputable clientele from ages past, it was now a well-respected meeting place that featured live music and a world-class restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised to find the pub’s restaurant offered everything from traditional pub food of bangers and mash and fish and chips to liver pâté and pan-seared scallops. The food was delicious, and the prices were reasonable. When we finished eating, we moved to the bar area to enjoy live music.
It wasn’t long before Irma was flirting with a local at the bar. Dorothy, who had a deep sultry singing voice, was singing duets with tonight’s featured musician, a guitarist and songwriter. Ruby Mae made friends with a waiter and was knitting by the fireplace and chatting with the staff like they were old friends. Nana Jo was getting a lesson on ales and was at the bar with about nine varieties in front of her. Even Hannah had run into a couple who were visiting Torquay from New Zealand. In the it’s-a-small-world-after-all basket, the couple knew Hannah’s sister.
I sat quietly nursing a glass of wine and soaking in the atmosphere. The pub was small, but I managed to find a quiet spot that was set back into an alcove. From there, I could hear and see, but unless someone stood up and looked around the corner, I couldn’t be seen. It was private, and I imagined smugglers meeting to discuss their illegal cargo in just such a place. I overheard snatches of conversation from nearby tables when the music stopped. Once, I heard a voice I recognized as belonging to Debra Holt.
“Look, this farce is almost over. We’ve got two more days and then we can get out of this backwater and get married just as we planned, and no one can stop us.”
“The police will—”
“The police can’t stop me from selling the business. The bottom line is that I’m Uncle Horace’s heir—his only heir. He wanted to sell the business, and so do I. There’s nothing wrong in that.”
The music started again, and I wasn’t able to hear Sebastian’s response. I sipped my wine, sat back, and allowed my mind to drift. I wondered if Agatha Christie had ever sat at the Hole in the Wall. Something about the very idea that the queen of the cozy mystery may have once dined here got my juices flowing. I couldn’t wait to jot down my thoughts and pulled out my notepad.
Detective Inspector Covington walked around the outside of the house and examined the ground under the window of the guest room where Captain Jessup had slept. He stood up and found himself staring into the salon window and looking at Lady Clara. She opened the French door.
“What on earth are you looking for?”
Detective Inspector Covington took a moment to wipe his feet before stepping inside. “I was hoping for a footprint or some other type of evidence to the killer’s identity.”
“Any luck?”
“I found some pills.” He held them out for her to see, but then put them in his pocket. He cupped his hands and blew on them.
“You’re freezing. Go to the fire and warm yourself before you catch a cold.” She walked to the wall and pushed the button to summon the butler. “I’ll order hot tea.”
The detective obeyed and walked over to the fireplace and extended his hands.
“What are you grinning about?” Lady Clara said.
“Have you noticed that you’re always ordering me about?”
She flushed. “Apparently, you need looking after. It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long. How on earth you’ve managed is beyond me.”
“Looking after a policeman is a difficult job. Not many women would sign up for it.”
She looked up. “I guess you must not have met the right woman.”
The two gazed into each other’s eyes. The warmth of the fireplace, their close proximity to each other, and a look that smoldered like the embers from the fireplace left them both flushed. As if by magic, the two were drawn into each other’s arms by an invisible force. Within seconds, they were locked into a passionate embrace. Their lips hungrily sought each other, and they allowed their passion to wash over them like a flood.
The spell was broken when Thompkins opened the door. He stopped and turned to leave.
The two withdrew.
“Thompkins, could you bring tea and sandwiches, please?” Lady Clara’s voice was husky with emotion.
“Yes, Lady Clara.” Thompkins bowed and silently left, closing the door behind him.
The couple awkwardly avoided eye contact. Eventually, the detective inspector turned away from the fireplace. “Lady Clara, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t ruin things by apologizing. You didn’t force me. And stop calling me Lady Clara. Why can’t we just be Clara and Peter?”
“Because that’s not how things are. You’re . . . an aristocrat, and I’m . . . not.”
“I’m a daughter of an earl who, like many of England’s aristocracy, is weighted down by a title but no money. Things are changing in England.” She folded her arms across her chest. “The last war taught us that aristocrats can die just like butlers, footmen, and gardeners. And, if there’s another war, which it seems like we’re headed for, then earls like Victor and policemen like you . . .” She turned away as tears rolled down her cheeks.
He walked over to her and pulled her into his arms and held her close. He placed his head on hers and inhaled. “If there’s anothe
r war, we’ll have to go. It’s our duty.”
She sniffled. “I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
There was a polite knock on the door. The couple stepped apart.
Thompkins entered, carrying a tray laden with tea, sandwiches, and scones. He placed the tray on a table, quietly turned, and walked out.
The detective inspector handed her a handkerchief.
She dried her eyes and wiped her face. “I must look an awful mess.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Liar.” She glanced at the detective. After a few moments, she turned to the tea tray and began to pour. “I don’t want to think about the war. Not today. Today, I just want to be a woman having tea with a man.” She looked up at the detective. “Would you care for milk or honey, Peter?”
The detective shook his head and accepted the teacup. “Thank you, Clara.” He sat down in a chair and sipped his tea.
Lady Clara stared for a moment, but then she poured herself tea and smiled.
Downstairs in the servants’ hall, Thompkins was confronted by a flurry of activity. An inebriated Hyrum McTavish was stumbling about, barely able to stand.
“Da, let me take you home,” Frank McTavish said, trying to steer his father toward the door.
“No, I gotta talk to his lordship.” He pushed Frank aside and stumbled into a chair. “Gotta talk. His lordship.”
“What’s going on here?” Thompkins said.
The groundskeeper made another attempt to move toward the stairs but found the butler to be an immovable wall. “His lordship, gotta ’splain.”
Thompkins stared down his nose. “You are in no shape to talk to anyone. Even if his lordship were home.”
The groundskeeper stared at Thompkins and then crumpled to the floor.
Frank struggled to lift his father. “He’s passed out.”
Thompkins sighed and carefully removed his jacket and placed it on a hook on the wall. “You’ll never be able to lift him alone.” He turned to Jim, who was standing nearby. “Get the door.” He then bent down and lifted the groundskeeper’s feet, while Frank reached under his father’s shoulders and lifted him. Between the two of them, they carried him outside and across to the cottage.
The next morning, we boarded the Paignton and Dartmouth Steam Railway. The brochures promised a journey known to Hercule Poirot, Christie’s Belgian detective. The tour followed the Devon coast, past the picturesque stations featured in the ABC Murders. We took time to explore the cobbled, winding streets of historic Dartmouth, then embarked on a cruise up the River Dart, where we caught another glimpse of Christie’s house, Greenway. I couldn’t help but think of Dead Man’s Folly, which when depicted on television was set at Greenway and showed the boathouse where the first murder of a girl guide occurred. Clive was well versed in Christie lore and shared that notes were found demonstrating how she had been walking across her property when she first got the idea for the story. I was fascinated.
After the tour, we headed off for Dartmoor, the ancient moorland known for its enormous granite rock formations that the locals called “tors,” wild ponies, mist, and rain. Clive explained this was where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle set his great story The Hound of the Baskervilles.
We walked along the moors, and I was surprised when I stumbled across a brightly painted smooth stone. I picked up the rock and smiled as I slipped it in my purse.
“What’re you doing with rocks?” Nana Jo said. “We got plenty of those in Michigan.”
“Who knows, I might need something to hurl at the murderer.” I smiled. “After all, I used to be pretty good at fast-pitch in high school.”
Hannah Schneider stared. “What’s fast-pitch?”
“Softball,” Nana Jo said. “Sam’s team won the state championship in high school.”
I rotated my arm as though I were pitching. “It’s been a while, but I used to be pretty good.”
We headed back to London for dinner. Tonight, we decided to try an Indian restaurant, Brigadiers, which Frank had recommended. Frank Patterson was a foodie through and through. He was not only a great cook but knew the best restaurants around the globe. We invited D. S. Templeton to join us, but she wanted to get home first. However, she did say she’d join us there later for drinks, and I suspected she wanted to get the latest news we’d managed to ferret out of our tour companions.
Brigadiers was a maze that seemed to go on forever. There were red leather seats, polished mahogany, and plenty of gold detail that supported the Indian theme. With a vending machine that dispensed whiskey and a pool room, there was definitely something for everyone in our group to enjoy. There was also a bar with at least ten televisions, which were all tuned in to sports. North Harbor, Michigan, was a small town with limited culinary options. These exotic-sounding dishes had my head spinning. So, I sent a quick text to Frank asking for suggestions. I wasn’t surprised when, seconds later, my phone rang and his picture popped up. He asked a few questions about how many people were with me and if anyone had food allergies. Learning there were no restrictions, he then told me to hand the phone to the waiter.
Our waiter, Sunil, took the phone. After a tentative greeting, he listened for a few moments and then broke into a big grin and began speaking in another language. Sunil pulled out his order pad and wrote as quickly as he spoke. When he was done, he handed back my phone, bowed, and hurried away.
“What just happened here?”
Frank chuckled. “I just ordered you the most amazing dinner ever. I hope your friends will enjoy it.”
“What language were you speaking?”
“Hindi.”
“Hindi, Italian, Greek, what other surprises are you hiding?”
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling. “I’ll be happy to show you all my secrets when you come back.”
I could feel the heat rising up my neck, and I knew I had a silly grin on my face because I couldn’t stop from smiling. “I can’t wait.”
We flirted for a few more minutes until Sunil returned with several dishes that smelled amazing and reminded me how hungry I was.
Sunil explained the dishes were pappadums and chutneys, lotus root and puff chaat, and a double order of masala chicken skins. He also brought martinis, which he mentioned were on draft. Our next course included Amritsari fried fish pao, BBQ butter chicken wings, and Afghani lamb cannon kebab skewers. He then brought achari beef short ribs, Sikandari kid goat shoulder, tawa prawn biryani, and a full rack of tandoori lamb chops.
Afterward, Nana Jo leaned back in her seat and said, “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Dorothy licked barbecue sauce from her fingers. “I have no idea what I just ate, but it was darned good.”
D. S. Templeton walked to our table in jeans and a sweatshirt. She glanced at the dishes covering the table and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Sunil rushed over. D. S. Templeton glanced at my cocktail and then requested the same. Sunil hurried off, taking several of the empty platters with him. He quickly returned with the martini and took the remaining plates.
Irma was making goo-goo eyes at a man sitting at the bar and looked about ready to go join her new friend when Nana Jo pulled out her iPad.
“Before we split up and head out for our own vices, we should take care of business.” She glanced at Irma, who pouted but sat silently.
“Who wants to go first?” Nana Jo asked.
Irma raised a hand. “I might as well go first. I don’t have much to tell.” She took her compact out of her purse and proceeded to refresh her makeup while she talked. “Al said he hadn’t seen Horace in decades. He was just about to get promoted when the university ran an article in the newspaper about him. A day later, he got a note from Horace asking to meet him.” She applied lipstick and then took a napkin and blotted her lips. “He thought it was . . . queer, but he went to the meeting. He said Horace was awful. He said if Al didn’t start paying him regularly, the university would find out about
his dirty little secret.”
“Horace Peabody was blackmailing Lavington?” Templeton asked with steel in her voice.
“He tried to blackmail him, but Al said he didn’t pay . . . well, he really couldn’t pay. Apparently, college professors don’t make a ton of money.” She sighed. “Anyway, not long afterward, the university received an anonymous tip that Al wasn’t who he claimed to be, and he was sacked.” She looked at Nana Jo. “That means fired.”
Nana Jo rolled her eyes. “I know what it means.”
“That seems rather underhanded,” I said.
Ruby Mae snorted. “That’s nothing for Horace Peabody.” She knitted and glanced over at Irma. “Are you done?”
“That’s it. Al said he was angry, but he never touched Peabody.”
“Well, if he’d killed him, he’d hardly admit to it, would he?” Nana Jo said.
Irma turned and batted her eyelashes at her friend at the bar.
“Ruby Mae, you might as well go next.”
“I didn’t get anything more from Clive, but I did get a chance to talk to the Blankenships.” She completed a row before continuing. “They’re a nice couple, but when Tiffany was in college—”
“Tiffany went to college?” Nana Jo asked. “She doesn’t seem like the college type.”
“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Josephine. Just because she’s blond, tanned, and attractive doesn’t mean she isn’t smart.”
“I agree. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Ruby Mae knitted a few more stitches. “She spent a summer abroad. Unfortunately, her boyfriend took some nude photos of her.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Irma said. “I’ve got photos—”
“Irma!” Nana Jo smacked the table. “Trust me when I tell you that none of us want to know about any naked photos of you floating around the retirement village.”
