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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Mother, until we know the results of the post-mortem, you can’t jump to conclusions like that,” I protested. (Okay, it was a bit hypocritical since I was thinking the same thing myself. Still, I felt that I had to offer a voice of caution.) “They may yet find that she died of a heart attack.”

  “No,” said my mother complacently. “She was poisoned.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As usual, my mother turned out to be right. Devlin rang me as soon as he got to work the next morning and said, with a grudging note of respect in his voice:

  “I hate to admit this but Mabel Cooke and your mother were right. I had the preliminary report from Jo waiting for me on my desk. Clare Eccleston did not die of a heart attack. Well, she did, but not in a natural way. She was poisoned—which caused her heart to go into cardiac arrest.”

  “What was the poison?”

  “We won’t have details until we get the results from the lab, but Jo says she did a tox analysis of the blood, urine, and stomach contents, and managed to identify that a cardiac glycoside was present. We’ll need to wait for further testing with gas chromatography and mass spectroscopy to determine exactly which one.”

  “A cardiac glycoside? Could it be digitalis?” I asked as an image flashed uneasily in my mind of a bed of tall, elegant foxgloves standing in the gardens at Eccleston House—where Mary had easy access to them, I thought, then I pushed the thought away. Instead, I reminded myself that there was also a glorious border of foxgloves in the beautiful chapel gardens of St Cecilia’s College, where Joseph the gardener tended them with loving care. I thought of my mother’s “clue” from last night. A gardener like Joseph would probably spend a lot of time going to garden centres…

  Devlin was speaking and I pulled myself with an effort back to the present.

  “Yes, according to Jo, digitalis—or digoxin, the purified drug form—would be the most common one,” he said.

  “Could she tell how the poison was administered?”

  “Most likely through ingestion. And from the amount of poison in Clare Eccleston’s system and how quickly she collapsed, the woman probably took it no more than half an hour before her death. There were no needle marks on the body but Jo said the stomach contents showed remnants of what looked like sponge cake, which had barely been digested.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” I said. “It was Victoria sponge cake. She was having some just before the judging started. Mary, her daughter, had baked a couple for the cake stall at the fête and Dame Eccleston had insisted on eating some—but wait…” I frowned. “It can’t have been the cake. We all had a slice—and none of us got sick.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my mother and me and Audrey—and Mary herself—all had a slice of the same Victoria sponge cake. So the poison can’t have been in the cake, surely, otherwise it would have affected us all?”

  “Maybe it was only in the piece that Dame Eccleston had. I presume you all had individual plates?”

  “Yes. Mary cut the cake up and handed the slices out to each of us.”

  “Was there anyone else in the vicinity?”

  I thought back. “There was another competitor—a lady with Siamese cats called Theresa Bell. She was at the table next to us. In fact, she was offered a piece of the cake, but she refused.”

  “She refused, did she?” said Devlin quickly.

  “Yes, and funnily enough, the reason she refused was because she said it might have been poisoned,” I said with an ironic laugh. “She was a weird woman. When we first arrived, she told me that someone was trying to kill her.”

  “She said what?”

  “Yeah, she took me aside and told me that someone was trying to harm her and her cats; she kept going on about past attacks on her at other shows and how everyone was in a conspiracy against her, that everybody was all out to get her. It was all very melodramatic. She even accused me of trying to poison her cats’ water just because I had been standing next to their cage…”

  “Sounds to me like she has a persecution complex,” mused Devlin.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s… well, I guess you could call it a type of mental disorder. We covered it briefly in our CID training. Basically, it’s when someone has an irrational and obsessive feeling that they are the victim of hostility from others. It’s like a form of paranoia, I suppose, although the people who suffer from it genuinely believe that everyone is out to get them.”

  “And if someone has this, do you think they might lash out first in what they think is self-defence? Like… ‘get them before they get me’?”

  “It’s possible,” said Devlin. “If someone is suffering from a persecution complex, they will often get suspicious—usually without any real basis—that others are exploiting or harming them and they will read demeaning or even threatening meanings into random benign remarks that other people make. So they’re more likely to react angrily because they’re always on the defensive already.”

  “Theresa did mention that she thought Dame Eccleston had tried to poison her Siamese cats at the last show,” I said excitedly. “Maybe she decided to poison the Dame as a way to counter-attack first?”

  “We’re jumping to conclusions here,” said Devlin in a warning tone. “I’d have to interview this woman myself first to make up my mind about the persecution complex. I’m only going on what you’ve told me so far about her behaviour that day.” He paused, then said, “But first, I need to speak to Mary Eccleston. She is currently the top suspect.”

  “It can’t be Mary!” I said. “She’s such a sweet, shy girl—and she was so upset that day, when her mother died…I just can’t believe it’s her.”

  “Gemma, you can’t afford to let your emotions cloud your judgement. It’s well known that most murder victims know their killers and that a family member is often the culprit. In addition, Mary has the most to gain from Dame Eccleston’s death. I did some quick asking around this morning and I believe she is the sole beneficiary of her mother’s estate. She is now a very rich young woman.”

  “Yes, but money isn’t the only reason people commit murder,” I said quickly. “Dame Eccleston sounds like she had a lot of enemies. The woman was an absolute cow and I think there were lots of people in the village—not to mention St Cecilia’s College—who would have happily plotted her death.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Well, Audrey Simmons from the village was telling me about the college gardener…”

  “The college gardener? The one you mentioned before?”

  “Yes, Joseph. I don’t know what his surname is. Remember I told you I’d met him a couple of times? He does some extra work at Eccleston House from time to time.”

  “Yes, I vaguely remember you telling me about him, but I have to admit, I wasn’t paying that much attention. Not with regards to a suspect in a murder case anyway.”

  “He’s a really odd bloke. A bit creepy.”

  “Creepy in what way?”

  “Oh, nothing sexual. Just… very weird. He never speaks, for one thing, and he never looks you in the eye—and he’s got a strange obsession with his plants.”

  “Well, he is a gardener,” said Devlin with a laugh.

  “No, no, it’s more than that. It’s almost as if he sees them as… well, as human. Like… like I came across him at St Cecilia’s and he was talking to a bunch of seedlings.”

  “Talking?”

  “I know, it sounds crazy but that was exactly what he was doing. He was having an entire conversation with them and talking to them, as if they were people or something. It was really bizarre.”

  “Well, that does sound a bit strange but there are probably all sorts of men out there with unusual passions and hobbies. Doesn’t make them murderers.”

  “Yes, I know, but Joseph has a motive too.” Quickly, I recounted the story that Audrey had told me about Dame Eccleston and Joseph’s huge fight over the planting of the border by the college chapel.
>
  “You’re not seriously suggesting that a man might have murdered someone just because of some dead plants?” said Devlin sceptically. “And how would he have got hold of the poison?”

  “There are foxgloves growing all over the college gardens,” I said quickly. “And loads at Eccleston House too. Given his expertise, I’m sure Joseph would have the knowledge of how to harvest them and extract the active ingredient.”

  “Was he at the fête?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Not as far as I know. But that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t have been there. There were a lot of people milling about; he’s a quiet, nondescript, middle-aged man—I imagine that he could have easily got lost in the crowds.”

  “What you’re saying is that he doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder—that he could have somehow slipped unnoticed into the cat show pavilion and added poison to the slice of cake on Dame Eccleston’s plate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay…” I heard the sound of a pen scratching, then Devlin said: “And anyone else on the day who was behaving suspiciously?”

  “Well, I don’t know about behaving suspiciously at the show, but there is someone who had been behaving suspiciously before the show. And afterwards too.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Edwin Perkins.”

  “Perkins… the bookseller chap? The one you thought might be some kind of crime boss who set thugs on Cassie’s brother?”

  I flushed. “Well, you have to admit that was a weird coincidence. And it’s also a coincidence that he happens to be a family friend of the Ecclestons.”

  “But we come back to the same thing: motive. Why would Edwin Perkins want to murder Dame Eccleston?”

  “Well, it could be revenge. I heard from village gossip that Edwin is besotted with Mary Eccleston. And I also heard that Dame Eccleston opposed any chance of a relationship—in fact, she took great delight in humiliating him very publicly about it.”

  “You’re thinking that he murdered her because she humiliated him?” Again, Devlin sounded sceptical.

  I shrugged, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “You’re the one who told me before that people commit murder for all sorts of trivial reasons. And when it comes to things like love and relationships, people can get really sensitive, can’t they? In fact, I can just imagine someone of Edwin’s pompous, stuffy personality would take a public humiliation really badly and decide to get revenge for it.”

  “Hmm…”

  I could hear from Devlin’s tone that he still wasn’t convinced.

  “Or…” I said, suddenly thinking back to that day in the tearoom with the Old Biddies gossiping and hearing Ethel’s voice again, saying: “He is so devoted to her—he really would do anything for her…”

  “Maybe he did it for Mary,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe he killed Dame Eccleston out of ‘love’ for her daughter. You don’t know what a tyrant Clare Eccleston was—and poor Mary was completely abused by her. Maybe Edwin couldn’t bear to see her being treated like that anymore and thought that by getting rid of her mother, he’d be setting Mary free. In fact, it would have been a double bonus because it also meant that there would be no one stopping her from having a relationship with him. Assuming she wanted to, that is.”

  Devlin made an incredulous noise. “Mary Eccleston is twenty-five years old. Surely she doesn’t need her mother’s permission to date someone?”

  “You haven’t seen her with her mother,” I said. “It wasn’t a normal relationship. I mean, I thought my mother was a bit overbearing at times but bloody hell, she’s nothing compared to Dame Eccleston! That woman was an absolute bully and Mary’s entire life was dominated and controlled by her mother. I think she got so used to being meek and submissive—I don’t think it ever entered Mary’s head to defy her mother.”

  “She defied her mother the night before the show,” Devlin pointed out. “I remember you mentioning that the Ecclestons’ maid overheard the mother and daughter screaming at each other.”

  Bugger, why does Devlin have to have such a good memory? “Yeah, that’s right,” I admitted.

  “Did the maid say what she had actually overheard? Like anything Mary said?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to tell him.

  “Gemma?” Devlin’s voice was sharp. “What is it? There’s something you’re holding back.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything—just a childish thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “The maid overheard Mary screaming at her mother: ‘I’M SICK AND TIRED OF BEING YOUR SLAVE—I HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!’—just before she stormed out of the room.”

  “I… see.”

  “But surely that doesn’t necessarily mean anything?” I said. “I mean, it’s the kind of thing teenagers are always screaming at their parents and nobody expects them to all be murderers.”

  “They might if the parents turn up dead the next day and the teenager stands to inherit everything, plus had the best opportunity to administer the poison. In any case, Mary’s not a teenager.”

  “I just can’t believe it’s Mary…” I said miserably.

  Devlin’s voice softened. “Well, for what it’s worth, I promise I will give the other suspects you mentioned equal consideration. In fact, I might go and question Edwin Perkins first, before I interview Mary.”

  “Make sure you ask him what he was doing in the cat pavilion,” I said.

  “I thought you said you didn’t see him in there.”

  “No, I didn’t see him in the pavilion but I bumped into him just as he was coming out of the tent and I was going in. I was on my way back with two glasses of lemonade and I practically crashed into him. He seemed to be in a big hurry—I’d like to know what he was doing in there. If we’re saying that Joseph could have slipped into the cat show and added poison to Dame Eccleston’s cake unnoticed, the same could be said for Edwin.”

  “Yes, very good point. Well, Mr Perkins and I are going to have an interesting chat,” said Devlin grimly.

  “Devlin, about Mary… Will you be asking her to come down to the station?”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “No, in view of her recent bereavement, I’ll keep things friendly and casual for the time being. I’ll question her at home this afternoon.”

  “In that case, can I come? Please? It would just be like if she had a friend or relative staying with her, who happened to be there when you arrived,” I pleaded. “And she might be more willing to talk if she feels like she has a friend with her.”

  Devlin hesitated, then said, “All right. But don’t think you’re going to make a habit of this, Gemma. You know I really shouldn’t allow civilians to get involved in an investigation…”

  I grinned to myself. “Oh, totally! One-time exception only!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I hurried over to Eccleston House as soon as I could get away from the tearoom that afternoon. Devlin was already there when I arrived, sitting in the spacious drawing room opposite Mary, who was perched on the edge of sofa, looking like a frightened rabbit. Her face lit up as I was shown into the room by Riza.

  “Gemma!” She jumped up, a tremulous smile breaking across her face, and hurried over to me.

  “I was just passing by and thought I’d pop in to see how you were doing,” I said smoothly.

  Mary gripped my hands tightly. “Oh Gemma, they’re saying that Mummy was murdered!”

  I squeezed her hands reassuringly and threw a questioning glance towards Devlin.

  Mary noticed my look and made an effort to compose herself. She led me over to join Devlin on the sofa and said, “Inspector O’Connor wants to ask me some questions about Mummy and what happened at the cat show on Saturday.”

  I sat down next to Mary and nodded encouragingly. “You should tell him everything. Have you shown him that anonymous note?”

  Mary hesitated, glancing quic
kly at Devlin, then back to me, then she shook her head.

  “What note is this?” said Devlin, with a perfect pretence of ignorance.

  Mary hesitated again, then rose and went over to an old-fashioned writing desk at the side of the room. From the top drawer, she pulled out a plain A4 envelope and handed it to Devlin.

  “I put it in there,” she said. “I found it with Aunt Audrey when we were going through Mummy’s papers the day after the fête. It was a really nasty shock to find it.”

  Devlin opened the envelope and peered inside, then he took some latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on before carefully extracting the piece of paper. Silently, he read the message spelled out by the cut-out letters. I noticed that the dark blue ink from the cut-out letters had bled a little and smeared across the paper, blurring the words.

  Devlin looked back at Mary. “Do you have any idea who might have sent this?”

  Mary shook her head. “There were some anonymous letters sent to Mummy at the college last year… Everyone thought that some of the students had sent those. But they weren’t this… this nasty—they were more like prank letters. And they looked different. They had been typed on a computer, whereas this one looks like someone cut out letters from something and stuck them on.”

  “My mother thinks the letters could have been cut out from the local garden centre supplement,” I spoke up. “The print is in the same blue ink and it stains your fingers when you handle it. We both noticed that our fingers got this strange blue stain on them, the day Mary first showed us the note, but we didn’t realise the significance of it until my mother went back to the garden centre yesterday and picked up a copy of the same supplement again—and got the same stain on her fingers.”

  “Hmm, very interesting,” said Devlin. He slid the letter carefully back inside the envelope. “I’ll take this in as evidence and have Forensics go over it, although I don’t hold out much hope for things like fingerprints since it’s been handled by so many people. Who else has seen this note?”