by K. C. Wells
“And how was she when you got back to the room?” Graham resumed his note-taking.
“Her condition had worsened considerably, and she was fighting to breathe. When she went into cardiac arrest, I elevated her feet and started chest compressions, but she was too far gone.” Professor Harcourt’s face fell. “There was nothing I could do.”
“He was still doing compressions when I got to the room.” Mike placed his hand on Harcourt’s back to comfort him.
“Is that a normal reaction in such cases?”
Professor Harcourt nodded. “When no epinephrine is administered, breathing becomes almost impossible and cardiac arrest follows. So strictly speaking, she died of a heart attack, but the cause was undoubtedly an allergic reaction. I was virtually carrying her up the stairs. She complained of nausea, her tongue was swollen, which is what made speech so difficult, and she was obviously weak and dizzy. Loss of consciousness was expected. I had hoped the chest compressions would keep her alive until the ambulance got here, but no.”
“Teresa was always super careful when it came to her allergy. That’s why she always carried two EpiPens.” Fiona stood beside Jonathon, a glass in her hand.
Graham frowned. “And how do you know all this?”
Fiona shrugged. “Teresa gave a lot of interviews. It’s well-documented. She always talked about stuff like this.”
“Professor, will there be a postmortem?” Jonathon asked. “Once her allergy is confirmed, I mean.”
Professor Harcourt nodded. “There’s been a register of deaths by anaphylaxis here in the UK since 1992. Not that many deaths, to be honest—maybe around twenty a year.”
“So yes, there’ll be an autopsy.” Graham closed his notebook. “Let’s wait and see what it comes up with.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ve got all I need for now. Thank you, Professor. Are you going to be in the village for a while?”
“Seeing as I’m speaking at the festival, I’d say that’s affirmative. If you need me to stay after the weekend, that can be arranged.”
Heather appeared, looking flustered. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me she’s not dead.” She wore a long overcoat, under which were pajamas.
Jonathon’s expression was glum. “I take it you’ve heard.”
“I got a call from Phil McCallister. She really is dead?”
Mike got up and put his arms about her. “Sorry, Heather. I know you wanted everything to go smoothly.” She leaned into him, her face downcast.
“Who’s Phil McCallister?” Graham demanded.
“An author attending the festival,” Jonathon explained. “He’s—” He glanced around, frowning. “He was here. Along with another writer, Melody Richards. When did they leave?”
Mike shrugged. “No clue. I didn’t see them go, but then I did have my mind on other more urgent issues.”
“Hmm.” Graham made a note. “I’ll need to speak to them.”
“Maybe I should cancel the whole thing,” Heather murmured, still leaning against Mike.
“Don’t do that,” Jonathon urged her. “Play it by ear. You have all these readers who’ve come here just for the festival. Not to mention the authors. Make an announcement when you open the festival in the morning. But don’t be surprised if the national news picks up on the story.”
“Which is all publicity, right?” Mike tightened his arm around her. “I agree with Jonathon. Don’t do anything tonight.”
“Okay.” She rubbed her eyes. “In that case, I’m going back to bed. See you all in the morning.”
“I’ll go out with you.” Graham replaced his helmet, shoved his notepad and pen back into his pocket, and accompanied Heather to the door.
Mike took another drink from his brandy. Please, God, let it be an accidental death.
He hoped the Almighty was listening.
GRAHAM’S DEPARTURE appeared to be a signal for everyone to go to the bar, including Mike.
Jonathon chuckled. “And he thought running a country pub would be a quiet life after the Met.”
“I still can’t believe she’s dead.” Professor Harcourt stared into his brandy.
“You and me both,” Fiona added. She gave Jonathon a wry smile. “I’m now the organizer of a fan club whose raison d’être has just disappeared.”
“Did you know Teresa well, Professor?” Jonathon inquired.
“Barely. Even if we did both live in Merrychurch at some point, although not at the same time.”
Jonathon gaped. “You lived here? When?”
“I was the village GP from 1985 until 1989. Teresa arrived after that. Not sure when, exactly.” He gave Fiona a sideways glance. “You probably know when, though. You certainly know everything else about her.”
Jonathon frowned. “But at dinner Teresa said it was nice to see you again.”
Professor Harcourt took another sip of brandy before continuing. “We did meet once, Teresa and I. A police officer recommended that she meet with me to discuss research she was doing for a book.”
“What did she want to know?” Jonathon tilted his head to one side.
“What every author wants to know when they talk to a pathologist. ‘Tell me there’s an undetectable, untraceable poison out there that no one’s ever used before.’”
“And is there?” Fiona’s eyes sparkled.
Professor Harcourt laughed softly. “If there is, it hasn’t reached my ears yet—or my autopsy table.” He glanced around the pub and shivered. “I didn’t like the atmosphere tonight. At the dinner and in here.”
“What do you mean?” Except Jonathon already had an idea of what was coming.
“It felt like there was a lot of malice in the air, if that doesn’t sound too melodramatic, given the present circumstances.”
Fiona huffed. “That’s not really surprising. Teresa didn’t gain herself a lot of friends while she lived here. And by the sound of it, she didn’t improve once she’d left Merrychurch.”
Professor Harcourt stared at her. “I see.”
Fiona took a large drink from her wineglass. “I may be the organizer of her fan club, but even I have to admit she had her moments.” Then she, too, shivered. “Okay, that’s enough. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, right?” She finished her wine. “I’m going to call it a night. Will I see you both at the festival tomorrow?” When both Jonathon and Professor Harcourt nodded, she smiled. “Good. Then I’ll say good night.” And with that, she got up and walked to the door, pausing to greet a few people on her way.
“I should get going too.” Professor Harcourt finished his brandy. “Please say good night to Mike for me?”
Jonathon nodded. “Do you want me to see you to your B and B?” He stood up, then collected the empty glasses.
“Oh no, I can manage. Besides, I need to read over my notes for my session.”
Jonathon was burning with curiosity. “What’s your topic? Oh—wait. I know. Heather said you’re talking about autopsies.”
Professor Harcourt beamed. “That’s right! And I’m also going to point out that the crime dramas everyone is so fond of—CSI, et cetera—are not the gospel when it comes to forensic procedure.”
“I look forward to hearing you.” Jonathon had a feeling Mike would enjoy that one. He bade Professor Harcourt good night, then rejoined Mike at the bar, where the pub’s patrons appeared to have rediscovered their thirst.
Jonathon couldn’t wait until it was closing time. He wanted to get Mike on his own and hear his thoughts on the evening’s events.
Another death in Merrychurch. At least it’s not a murder this time.
Chapter Six
JONATHON WALKED slowly up the stairs, feeling weary. The night had taken its toll, and he was bone-tired. Below, he could hear Mike locking the door. When Jonathon reached the landing, he gazed at the closed door of the guest room. On impulse, he crossed the floor and opened it.
The room was a chaotic mess. Teresa’s suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed, its contents strewn over the ru
g, no doubt the result of Professor Harcourt searching frantically for the spare EpiPen. On the bed lay Teresa’s capacious bag, its contents disgorged due to another search. It took Jonathon a moment to realize something was missing.
“Mike?”
A minute later, Mike entered the room. “What’s up?” He glanced at the chaos. “I’d better put this right in the morning.”
“Come here a minute.” Jonathon pointed to the bed. “What don’t you see?”
Mike joined him and gazed at the heap of items. He rubbed his beard. “Okay, you’ve lost me. What am I missing?”
“Her notebook. Remember? The A4 notebook that goes with her everywhere?” Jonathon scanned the room. “Well, it isn’t here.” His gaze alighted on the small table by the window. “What’s that?” An open cardboard box sat there. He went to it and peeked inside. “It’s a hardback copy of one of Teresa’s books.” Jonathon reached in and withdrew it. “Murderous Intent,” he read aloud.
“That’s her latest release,” Mike informed him.
Jonathon turned to face him with a wry smile. “Okay. Exactly how many of Teresa’s books do you possess?”
Mike blinked. “Er… all of them?”
Jonathon chuckled. “The things I’m still learning about you.” He leafed through the book. “Is it any good?”
“I liked it.”
“Do you find yourself reading them with your ex-copper’s head on?”
Mike groaned. “All the time.”
That was funny. “Why can I see you shouting at the book, ‘But that wouldn’t happen in real life!’” Jonathon said with a grin.
Mike huffed. “Not all the time, you understand. Just now and again. Which is strange, especially as she claimed to do so much research. You’d think she’d have a friendly copper on call for checking what she’d written.”
“Or maybe she wasn’t as diligent in her research as she’d have us believe.” A flash of yellow caught Jonathon’s eye, and he went back a page or two. “This is weird.”
“What is?”
Jonathon held up the opened book for Mike to see. “A word has been highlighted in here.”
Mike leaned over and peered at it. “Never. Okay, that is weird. Are there any more?”
Jonathon went back to the start of the book. “Let’s have a look.” He thumbed through the pages, noting each highlight. When he got to the end, he closed it slowly. “I don’t like this.” His stomach clenched.
“What did you find?”
Jonathon took a breath. “A phrase. The past never goes away.” He put down the book and glanced at the box. “This was addressed to Teresa here. Why send it to the pub?”
“Maybe whoever sent it figured as the festival was going to be in Merrychurch, it would find its way to her eventually.”
“Or else they knew she’d be staying here,” Jonathon mused. “Did she tell everyone where she was staying?”
“I’d have thought that unlikely, except after listening to Fiona, I’m beginning to think Teresa was one of those people who shared everything on social media. And she did reserve the room ages ago.” Mike reached for the book, but Jonathon stopped him with a hand to his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t touch it.”
Mike’s brow knitted. “Why not? You just touched it.”
“Yes, as did Teresa—and whoever sent it.”
Mike cocked his head to one side. “What are you thinking?”
“That maybe her death isn’t as accidental as it might appear.” The uneasy feeling in his stomach worsened. “Mike… can you cause anaphylactic shock?”
Mike stilled. “You mean….”
Jonathon nodded slowly. “It’s possible, isn’t it? Either she came into contact with whatever caused the reaction by accident, or else someone made sure she did.” He stared at the mess of clothing and other items. “Maybe the same person who came up here and stole her EpiPen from her suitcase. They knew she was staying here, right? How easy would it have been to sneak upstairs tonight, when the pub was so full? You certainly wouldn’t have seen anyone do that. Me neither, for that matter.”
“Yes, but someone else might have. It would be a risk. And what about the EpiPen in her bag? How did that disappear?”
Jonathon stroked his chin. “If I remember correctly, her bag was under the table. Think about how many people were clustered around her, asking questions, demanding autographs. Maybe someone snuck it from her bag in all the commotion.”
Mike glanced at the clock beside the bed. “It’s too late to call Graham. This will have to wait until morning.”
Jonathon swallowed. “Then you think I’m right?”
Mike sighed. “I think it’s a possibility. We’ll see what he says. Maybe the book and her allergic reaction aren’t connected, but….”
“But it is suspicious.” Jonathon shivered. “Let’s get out of here. And we don’t touch anything else, all right?”
Mike gave him an amused smile. “Just which one of us is the ex-copper here?” He headed for the door, with Jonathon right behind him. When they were outside, Mike closed the door and locked it. “I don’t want anyone going in there until Graham has seen it.”
Jonathon nodded. “He’ll need my prints and Professor Harcourt’s, to eliminate them from any others he might find.” Much as he hated the idea, he was starting to think that Teresa had been murdered.
The postmortem would tell them how.
“Bed,” Mike said quietly, tugging his arm. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. All I want to do is curl up with you under the sheets and forget about all this.”
Jonathon had a feeling switching off his brain might not be so easy a task.
JONATHON WAS in the middle of his second cup of coffee when Graham walked in. “Are you all done up there? There’s coffee in the pot if you want some.” Mike had taken Graham upstairs as soon as he’d arrived.
Graham sat down at the wide wooden table, placing his helmet on it. “Thanks. I’d love one. Mike’s still upstairs.” He huffed gloomily. “Great way to start my day. Seven thirty on a Saturday morning, my phone rings. ‘Good morning, Graham. Can you come to the pub? We think we’ve got another murder.’” He narrowed his gaze. “What is it with you two? Does death follow you around or something?” Graham folded his arms. “Out with it, then. Let’s hear what that sleuthing brain of yours has come up with. What makes you think she was murdered?” His eyes gleamed. “Unless we’re talking about another dead body you’ve managed to rustle up during the night?”
Mike entered the kitchen at the tail end of Graham’s remark and made a beeline for the coffee. “One dead body is more than enough, thank you very much.”
Jonathon got up and handed him another mug from the cabinet. “For Graham.” Then he sat back down and ran through their findings, while Mike poured the coffee.
Graham’s face fell. “Seriously, though, after taking a look at her room, I have to agree with Jonathon. This points to a suspicious death. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy, of course, if it turns up something that definitely shouldn’t be there.” A heavy sigh rolled out of him. “Y’know, I used to have a quiet life before you two got together. A bit of illegal parking. A rowdy party or two. Someone complaining about their neighbor’s dog barking all the time. Nice, simple stuff. And now, in less than a year, we’re talking three murders.”
“We don’t know for sure that Teresa was murdered,” Mike reminded him as he placed a mug in front of him.
“But it’s adding up that way.” Graham took out his notepad and scribbled a couple of lines.
“And I’m not sure I like the implication,” Jonathon added. “You make it sound like all these murders are taking place because we got together. As if we’ve somehow caused them to happen.”
“Well, you’ve got to admit that’s how it looks. Three suspicious deaths? It’s beginning to feel like one of those detective series on TV. You know the ones, where the dead bodies start piling up.” Graham tapped his note
pad with his pen. “And now I have to report this.” He sipped his coffee. “Now I remember why I came over at this hour. Your coffee is way better than the stuff at the station.”
“The festival begins today. Should we say anything to Heather about our suspicions?” Jonathon asked.
Both Graham and Mike shook their heads. “Say nothing,” Graham urged. “She can announce Teresa’s death, of course. It’s not as if she could hide that, given the number of people in the pub last night.” He rubbed his chin. “But you know what? You two could prove useful.”
Jonathon widened his eyes. “In what capacity?”
Mike chuckled. “I think I know the answer to that one. He wants us to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Maybe someone at the festival had it in for her. They might relax now that she’s dead, thinking no one suspects foul play.”
“Relaxed enough to reveal motives, you mean?” Jonathon shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
Mike finally sat down, a mug in his hand. “I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but something has just occurred to me. If it was murder, then all those people in the pub last night could be witnesses. And most of them aren’t from around here. So when the festival ends tomorrow evening, they’ll leave.”
“Never mind witnesses—one of them might have done it.” Jonathon stared at Graham. “And then it’ll be a case of person or persons unknown. Especially as the postmortem results won’t be out until after the festival finishes.”
Graham scowled. “Not on my watch.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he drank his coffee. No one said anything for several minutes. Finally, Graham sighed. “Okay. There’s only one course of action. I’ll have to make an announcement at the festival opening.”
“What kind of announcement? ‘There’s been a murder. Please raise your hand if you did it’?” Jonathon snickered. “I can see that going down well.”
