Till Death Do Us Tart (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4)

by H. Y. Hanna

  Still, the Old Biddies were best taken in small doses and I gave their stall a wide berth as I passed. I was just approaching a second-hand books stall and wondering if I had time to stop and have a quick look when a strong arm snaked around my waist and hauled me close to a hard male body.

  I gave a squeal of surprise, then laughed as a deep baritone said in my ear, “I think I might have to arrest you, Miss Rose, on grounds of suspicious behaviour.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I whirled around and looked up at Devlin O’Connor—and felt my heart give a little flip-flop, like it always did whenever I saw him. He was looking very different from his usual detective persona—instead of a classic tailored suit, he was wearing faded jeans and a pale grey Henley T-shirt which moulded itself to the muscular contours of his chest and shoulders. His black hair was slightly ruffled by the breeze and there was a shadow of dark stubble along his jaw. He looked handsome, relaxed, and incredibly sexy.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “We’ve had a tip-off. We think there’s a gang behind the recent ‘agri-crime’ thefts and it sounds like they might chance their luck at the fête.” He jerked his head towards the other side of the village green. “There’s a display of quad bikes, tractors, and other farm equipment over there, next to the pony rides. They would be a likely target, so I’m here to keep an eye on things. I’ve got a team here too, mingling in plainclothes, so that if the gang do strike, we’ll be ready. If this is an organised crime job, then breaking into the ring would be a big coup.”

  I glanced at the crowd milling around us. “So any sign of potential thieves so far?”

  Devlin made a rueful face. “Not even a sniff of a pickpocket. But that’s all good,” he added quickly. “This is exactly how a village fête should be: happy, safe, and peaceful.” He smiled. “And it gives me a chance to sneak some time with my girlfriend.”

  He pulled me to him and pressed a kiss to my lips.

  “Devlin!” I cried, looking quickly around and stifling a giggle. “Stop! Everyone will see!”

  “So what? It’s not as if we aren’t already the talk of the village. I’m sure everybody is gossiping about us all the time anyway. Did you know that Susan Bromley asked me the other day whether we would name our son after your father or mine?”

  “She didn’t!” I gasped.

  “She did,” said Devlin, his blue eyes alight with laughter. “And Mrs Sutton at the post office asked when we were planning to move in together.”

  I made a sound of exasperation. “That’s really none of their business! Why is everybody so nosy in the village?”

  “So why don’t we give them something to really talk about?” said Devlin with a wicked grin as he pulled me close again.

  I shook my head and pushed him gently away. “Sorry, I need to get back to the cat show. The judging is about to start any minute. I only came out to grab a drink.”

  He looked bemused. “Cat show?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t ask. I’ll tell you later.” I reached up on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

  Hurrying back to the pavilion several minutes later, carefully carrying two full cups of home-made lemonade, I hoped desperately that the judging hadn’t started. The queue for the lemonade had been horrendous and I’d been away much longer than I’d planned. As I was ducking in the pavilion entrance, I nearly crashed into a tall, thin man coming out.

  “Oomph!” I stumbled backwards and overturned one cup of lemonade, nearly spilling it down my dress. I managed to save the other one, although not without losing a large portion of it.

  “I beg your pardon…” the man said, in an irate tone that completely belied his apology.

  He shuffled left and right, just as I did the same, each blocking the other.

  “Excuse me!”

  “Sorry!”

  He made another sound of irritation, caught hold of my arm to hold me in place and stepped around me, hurrying off without a backward glance. I gave his departing back a dirty look. Okay, so he might have been in a hurry but he didn’t have to manhandle me like that!

  Heaving an irritable sigh, I hurried into the pavilion, back down the rows towards our table. I was relieved to note that the judging didn’t seem to have started yet, although the excitement had reached fever pitch and everywhere I looked was a hive of activity as people dashed around brushing coats, fluffing tails, sprinkling powders…

  My goodness, they really take this seriously, I thought, as I walked past cages where owners were practising holding their cats up for the judge to examine. The tension in the air was palpable. When I got back to our table, I could see that even the great Dame Eccleston was affected. Her beloved Victoria sponge cake was all forgotten now, a half-eaten plate sitting next to the cat cage, as she manically gave Camilla one final brush and her daughter hovered anxiously around her.

  My mother, however, looked serene and confident as she stood next to our table. I marvelled at her calm complacency and thought uneasily again of Muesli’s ineligibility to be in a show like this. There was no way that was going to escape notice when the judge arrived. I hoped he wouldn’t be too harsh. No matter how exasperating I found her, I hated the thought of my mother being humiliated in front of everyone.

  The judging began and I joined everybody else in anxiously watching the judge’s progress as he made his way slowly down each row of tables. The pavilion seemed even hotter and more airless now, and I felt myself sweating in my wool dress.

  “He’s coming this way!”

  “He’s here!”

  “He’s coming!”

  The murmurs rolled across the pavilion and I straightened hurriedly as I saw a small bald man begin to make his way down our row. Owners watched tensely as he paused by each table to examine the cat, lift it up, look into its face to gauge its expression. His hands moved deftly over each cat’s body, feeling the shoulders, spine, haunches, gliding over the length of the tail, checking the line of the jaw. Nothing escaped his expert eye and I swallowed nervously as I thought of his critical gaze on Muesli, with her slightly over-long tail and her mismatched white paws. Her shortcomings would be even more glaring after he had seen all these fine specimens of beautiful purebreds.

  He was coming closer—he was only a couple of cages away now—and I felt my heart pounding in my chest. This is ridiculous, I told myself. I didn’t get this nervous when I was taking my final exams at Oxford! It was only a stupid cat show—who cared what one little man thought? It didn’t mean that Muesli was a lesser cat or less beautiful than any of the other felines here just because she wasn’t awarded a blue ribbon.

  Still, it was hard to control my nerves. And looking around, I could see that I wasn’t the only one. In fact, even Dame Eccleston, a veteran of cat shows, looked flushed and uneasy, beads of sweat standing out on her forehead. She tugged at the high collar of her Victorian blouse and I could see her breathing with effort. I glanced at my mother and marvelled again at her serene demeanour. She looked supremely unconcerned, her hands gently holding Muesli, her head tilted back gracefully and an expectant smile on her lips. If you could get marks for poise and elegance, my mother would have won the show already.

  The judge stopped at the table just before the Siamese, where a large Ragdoll cat sat placidly, waiting to be examined. But as he moved forward to pick up the cat, the air was suddenly rent by a shriek of distress.

  “It’s gone! It’s gone! Someone’s snatched it!”

  Theresa Bell reeled back from her own cage, clutching her neck frantically. She stumbled sideways past our table and tripped, crashing into Dame Eccleston behind us.

  “Aaaaaaah!” she screamed, as both women fell to the ground.

  Everyone turned to stare and several people started forwards to help the two women. The judge was the quickest and he bent down gallantly to help Theresa to her feet. But as he leaned down again to Dame Eccleston, he stiffened suddenly and froze.<
br />
  There was a gasp. “Mummy?” cried Mary, dropping down by the inert form of her mother. “Mummy? Are you all right?”

  More people rushed forwards and a crowd surrounded the fallen woman. Shouts and cries of panic filled the air. People were yelling for a doctor, an ambulance, for someone to start CPR… and through it all, you could hear Mary’s breathless voice crying:

  “Mummy? Mummy! Speak to me!”

  Then suddenly, in the middle of mayhem, came a deep voice I recognised. It was Devlin. He was there in the pavilion, his calm, authoritative voice quelling the panic, asking the crowd to move back, commanding someone to call an ambulance. Then he knelt down besides Dame Eccleston. I saw him put a hand to her neck to feel for a pulse. There was a pause, then he sat back on his heels and looked up at us.

  Silence filled the pavilion. He didn’t need to say it. We all knew. She was dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “No…” said Mary faintly. She seemed unable to move.

  In fact, we were all paralysed. Somehow, I couldn’t believe it. It seemed wrong… Death… here in the midst of a happy village fête, with people laughing and stuffing their faces and children playing on bouncy castles and riding miniature ponies…

  Dead?

  Everyone gradually drifted back to their tables in a stunned silence. A hush fell over the pavilion. There was no question of the cat show continuing now. The shrill wail of a siren came faintly from the distance and, a few minutes later, the ambulance arrived. People clustered together and pointed and whispered as the paramedics hurried in, carrying a stretcher, followed by Dr Foster, the village GP, who had been hunted down and brought in to see his long-time patient.

  “Dear me… Dear me…” the old doctor tutted, standing aside and shaking his head as the paramedics transferred Dame Eccleston’s limp form to the stretcher. His wrinkled, sad face looked like an old hound dog’s. “I did warn her about the risks of a sudden heart attack.”

  “So are you citing that as the cause of death, Doctor?” asked Devlin, standing next to him.

  The doctor nodded and made a tutting sound again. “Very sad, you know, but as I always tell my patients: the body cannot hold out forever. And in her case, with her heart condition—and her diet and the excess weight she carried…” He shook his head again.

  “Was she on any medication for her heart trouble?” asked Devlin.

  “Yes, Mummy was taking some pills for her angina…” came a quavering voice next to us.

  I turned to look. It was Mary Eccleston, leaning against the table, a blanket around her shoulders. She looked white and shaken, although she was not crying. Next to her, Audrey Simmons was rubbing her arm and making comforting noises.

  The girl gulped back a sob. “We… we always carried some. Dr Foster said to take them when Mummy felt the pain coming on…”

  Devlin glanced towards the doctor for confirmation and the old GP nodded.

  “Yes, that’s right—glyceryl trinitrate sublingual tablets—I prescribed them to her only a few weeks ago. She had been complaining of tightness in her chest and pain radiating down her arms from time to time—classic angina symptoms, you know. Very common, particularly in times of stress. The tablets help to relieve the symptoms very quickly, though of course, they wouldn’t cure her heart condition. She really needed to tackle her weight and diet. I did give her stern advice, in particular with regards to avoiding rich, sugary, buttery baking and desserts…” He sighed and said to Mary, “I’m very sorry, my dear. I know this must be a horrible shock for you.”

  Mary looked distressed. “Mummy had some Victoria sponge cake… I know you said not to let her have any sweets, Doctor, but Mummy liked her cakes very much and I… I couldn’t stop her…” Her eyes widened with sudden horror. “Oh, do you think it was the cake that caused her heart attack?”

  “No, no, my dear, don’t worry yourself on that account,” the old doctor said quickly, reaching over to pat her hand. “It was the culmination of several things—her high cholesterol, her weight, her sedentary lifestyle and rich, sugary diet… these are all risk factors for a heart attack.”

  The girl seemed comforted. Audrey put a gentle hand on her arm and led her back to the table, where a cup of hot, sweet tea was waiting.

  Devlin turned back to the GP and said, “And you are sure, Doctor, that a heart attack is the cause of death? We would normally need a post-mortem to certify death from natural causes, unless the person’s own doctor—”

  Dr Foster bristled. “Are you doubting my diagnosis, young man? Naturally, I’d be happy to sign the death certificate! Yes, Dame Eccleston died from a heart attack—she had all the classic risk factors and symptoms. And in fact, you can see that the poor lady must have been feeling ill and had been about to take some medication…” He indicated the woman’s outstretched hand which flopped down limply at the side of the stretcher.

  Devlin stepped forwards and carefully uncurled the dead woman’s fingers. Clutched in her right hand was a small white pill. In spite of my previous dislike for her, I felt a stab of pity for Clare Eccleston. Perhaps if she had only got to her angina tablets in time, she might have prevented the heart attack. Devlin must have read my mind because he asked the doctor the same question.

  “Perhaps,” said Dr Foster with a shrug. “Heart attacks can be unpredictable things. It is not an attack, per se, you understand—that is just a lay term used by the general public. It is either a cardiac arrest caused by a sudden arrhythmia or a myocardial infarction caused by a clot in the coronary artery. The end result is the same—the heart suddenly stops beating.”

  “Was it brought on by anything in particular, do you think?” asked Devlin.

  “Stress is a very likely trigger,” Dr Foster said. “The stress of the show… and there was also the shock of a sudden physical trauma in this case, I believe?”

  I saw Devlin’s eyes flick to Theresa Bell, who was being questioned by a constable a few feet away. “Yes, unfortunately there was a… an accident of sorts and another competitor collided with the victim and knocked her to the ground. The other lady thought someone had stolen her necklace—when actually the clasp had broken and the necklace had simply fallen to the ground.”

  “Yes, hmm…” The old doctor’s moustache quivered thoughtfully. “Well, that is just the kind of sudden shock that might be too much for a weakened heart to take. Of course, if Dame Eccleston had listened to my advice regarding her weight and diet, her heart might not have been so vulner—”

  “Ahh… yes, Doctor, thank you very much for your help,” said Devlin quickly. He indicated the young man next to him who had been scribbling notes onto a pad. “If you could go with my constable here and attend to the death certificate…”

  The old doctor was led away and Devlin heaved a sigh, then glanced around. His face brightened as our eyes met and he took a step towards me, but before he could speak, we were interrupted by a yell from the pavilion entrance. A constable ran in, his chest heaving.

  “Inspector! Come quick!”

  “What is it?” said Devlin, hurrying over to him.

  “The quad bikes! They’ve been nicked! Two of our boys have gone after them, though, and we might still be able to head them off if we circle round the other side of the village.”

  Devlin swore under his breath and took off racing after the constable as they both disappeared in pursuit. A great hubbub rose in the pavilion after they’d left, as people excitedly discussed the new drama. I saw the members of the committee huddling together, their faces filled with dismay. Their thoughts were plainly written on their faces: as if a tragic death from a heart attack wasn’t bad enough, now there was the possibility of a full-scale police chase after an organised crime gang! The village fête was falling into a shambles.

  “I cannot believe the way the police have completely ignored me and my troubles!” cried an aggrieved voice next to me.

  I turned to find Theresa Bell at my elbow.

  “I could have been
the victim of a horrible theft! The police should be focusing on that instead of asking questions about Dame Eccleston. That woman always hogs all the attention! For goodness’ sake, she had a heart attack! What’s the big deal? People have heart attacks every day! It’s not as if—”

  “Oh shush!” I said quickly, glancing across at Mary Eccleston who was leaning against the table next to us, her arms wrapped around herself as if she was cold. She was alone—Audrey Simmons must have gone to join the rest of the village fête committee—and the poor girl was looking completely lost. Leaving Theresa Bell still spluttering behind me, I went over to Mary and touched her gently on the arm. She gave a violent start and turned to me, her eyes wide and scared.

  “Are you all right?” I asked gently.

  “I… uh… yes…” She looked miserably towards the paramedics. “Should I be going with Mummy…?”

  “I don’t think you need to—they’ll just be taking her to the hospital morgue. I’m sure you could… um… visit later.”

  “I’d like to go home,” she said in a small voice. She glanced at the white Persian in the cage. “I’m sure Camilla would like to go home too.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said soothingly. “Have you got a friend or family member you could call? Is your father—?”

  “Daddy passed away several years ago.”

  “Oh, well then… what about any other relatives?”

  “There’s Aunt Audrey… She’s not really my aunt but I call her that. She used to be at school with Mummy.” She glanced hesitantly across the pavilion. “But she looks busy at the moment.”

  Busy was an understatement. As a member of the village fête committee and particularly the one in charge of the cat show, Audrey had her hands full dealing with the aftermath of what had happened. I glimpsed her hurrying between tables, trying to soothe everyone and respond to all the people clamouring for her attention.

  “Is there anyone else?” I asked.