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

by H. Y. Hanna

  Theresa looked a bit embarrassed. “Yes, well… an Inspector from the CID did come to see me yesterday… but I was very busy—very busy—and I didn’t have time to answer questions,” she said quickly, fiddling with the handle of her mug.

  Her fingernails clicked on the china surface of the mug and I noticed that she was wearing a different colour nail polish today—a sickly shade of orange which made her hands look slightly jaundiced. Theresa Bell certainly didn’t have good taste in nail polish!

  “That’s an unusual colour of nail polish,” I commented, indicating her hands.

  She spread her fingers and examined her nails. “Yes, I saw this in a sale. I normally prefer purple shades…”

  “Oh yeah, you were wearing a lavender-coloured nail polish at the fête, weren’t you?” I said. “I remember noticing it on your fingers.”

  “Oh, that’s my lucky bottle,” she said, smiling coyly. “I always wear that colour for a show.” She rose and went to a cupboard at the side of the room, returning a moment later with a small cosmetics bag. She unzipped it and showed me a collection of little glass bottles inside, most of them in varying shades of purple and violet. She pulled out one bottle and held it up to show me. “This is the one! It’s called ‘Lilac Karma’ and it always brings me luck.”

  It was exactly the shade of the nails in the photo. I was itching to pull out my phone and show the picture to Theresa, to see her reaction, but I restrained myself with an effort. Instead, I stood up slowly and said, “Thank you for the tea. It’s been lovely chatting with you, but I really should go now.”

  Theresa looked sorry to see me go. I realised suddenly that she was lonely and had enjoyed having the company, particularly having someone she could vent and complain to without fear of comeback.

  “Come back anytime,” she said. “Particularly if you need any more advice about Cornflake’s coat.”

  “Er… thanks. Oh, can I use your loo before I go?”

  Theresa pointed towards the doorway leading into the hallway. “It’s the first door down the hall.”

  I followed her directions and found myself in a spacious bathroom, complete with Siamese-cat-embroidered towels by the sink and a Siamese cat quilted toilet seat cover. It was unusually large for the size of her cottage—I wondered if Theresa had converted an existing bathroom during her house extension or perhaps combined two rooms into one. It was probably just as well that there was so much space because, aside from all the Siamese cat paraphernalia, there were also several litter trays in different corners of the bathroom.

  I was washing my hands when I noticed something about the litter trays. Hurriedly drying my hands, I bent to look at them more closely. Yes, my eyes hadn’t deceived me. A page of newspaper had been used to line the bottom of the tray—or rather, a page of newspaper supplement. Carefully, I picked up a corner of the plastic tray and gave it a little shake, so that the litter shifted to one side and exposed more of the newspaper below. A headline showed across the top of the page:

  “Mix ’n’ Match Special for Bedding Plants!”

  I stared at the distinctive blue ink of the print, smeared slightly and blurring the letters… the cheap blue ink which stained one’s fingers terribly… the same blue ink which was on the anonymous note that Mary had showed me.

  I glanced around the bathroom again and noticed a pile of papers stacked on a laundry hamper in the corner. I walked over to look. Yes, it was a stack of garden centre supplements. Surplus printed copies from an old mailing which were now out of date and unwanted by the garden centre. They’d probably offered the surplus copies to anyone who might have a use for them—such as a dog breeder with new puppies or a cat breeder with a lot of litter trays to line…

  And if you were planning to send an anonymous note made up of cut-out letters and you had a stack of such newspaper supplements handy, it would make sense to use them…

  I stared at the pile of papers, my mind whirling. Was it all just a coincidence? Or had Theresa sent the anonymous note that Dame Eccleston had received just before she was murdered? And what about the photo showing Theresa reaching towards the cake plate? Surely not another coincidence as well? Was Theresa Bell the murderer?

  There was only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I stepped back into the sitting room and paused on the threshold. Devlin had told me not to question Theresa, not to interfere with the investigation. But Devlin wasn’t here. And I had this new knowledge burning in my mind. I couldn’t bear the thought of just leaving and waiting again for the police to go through official channels and do something about it.

  “Theresa…” I said, advancing on her. “I forgot to ask you—what did you think of that creepy anonymous note that Dame Eccleston received?”

  Her eyes widened. “Anonymous n-note?” she stammered.

  “Yes, haven’t you heard? I thought it was all around the village. There was an anonymous note discovered amongst Dame Eccleston’s personal papers, with a vicious message on it.”

  “Oh, well… I try not to listen to any of the gossip going around the village,” Theresa said. “It’s all horrid lies most of the time. Why, the things they say about me that—”

  “This isn’t just gossip,” I cut in. “The police have been notified and they are treating it very seriously. In fact, I think they believe it’s a clue to Dame Eccleston’s murderer.”

  Theresa had gone slightly pale. “But… but the note was just to scare her a bit. It was nothing to do with the murder!”

  “How could you know the note was just to scare her?” I demanded. “Unless… you sent it yourself?”

  Theresa took a step back from me. All colour had left her face now.

  I stared her in the eye. “It was you, wasn’t it? And you cut out the letters from the garden centre supplements. I saw a pile of them in your bathroom. Very handy when you thought of sending this note.”

  “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Theresa Bell whispered.

  “Oh, I think you do,” I said grimly. I pulled out my phone and thrust Liam’s photo in front of her. “You see this picture? It was taken at the fête last weekend. During the cat show, in fact. Yes, it’s a photo of me and my cat, Muesli—but in the background, you can see part of the Ecclestons’ table, and in particular, a half-eaten plate of cake which had been left on one side. Dame Eccleston’s half-eaten plate of cake.” I zoomed in on the picture and pointed. “And there is a hand reaching towards that plate—a hand with pale lavender nail polish, just like your ‘Lilac Karma’.” I looked at Theresa Bell accusingly. “What were you doing to Clare Eccleston’s cake?”

  “Nothing!” she cried. “I wasn’t doing anything to the cake!”

  “Then why were you reaching towards it?”

  Theresa squirmed and looked down. Her face was red now. “I… I was just helping myself to a little piece.”

  “You were what?” Of all the things I had thought she would say, it wasn’t that.

  “I wanted to try some,” she said sulkily. “It looked so delicious and Victoria sponge is one of my favourite cakes.”

  “But you were offered some at the beginning,” I said. “I was there. I heard you refuse.”

  Teresa squirmed again. “Well, I didn’t like to accept when Clare was looking at me like that. One does have one’s pride, you know,” she said, raising her chin.

  I stared at her incredulously. “You’re telling me you were nicking a piece of Dame Eccleston’s cake?”

  Theresa flushed even redder. “Well, she wasn’t eating it anymore! I was watching. She had pushed it aside and was busy grooming her cat. It would have just gone to waste—and there was still quite a bit of cake left on the plate. I finished it all off. I… I thought nobody would mind.” She gave me an alarmed look. “I didn’t poison Clare! She was the one who always tried to harm me—and I’m sure she tried to poison my Yum-Yum at the last show! In fact, do you think maybe the poison had been really intended for me
? Maybe I was the real victim?”

  I sighed and suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Honestly, the woman had a one-track mind. Then I had an idea.

  “You know, that might be true, Theresa, which is why you need to speak to the police and tell them everything,” I said earnestly. “Inspector O’Connor tried to see you yesterday—he left you his card, didn’t he? You need to ring him as soon as possible and tell him everything that happened. The police have to know all the facts if they are to protect you properly.”

  Theresa gave a squeak which sounded more delighted than frightened. “Do you think so? Oh, my goodness—I could have been the real victim! Someone might be trying to murder me! I’ll ring him now!”

  Before I even left the house, Theresa was already on the phone to Oxfordshire police station, hurriedly asking for an interview with Devlin. I let myself out and walked slowly away, mulling over what had just happened. I felt like my head was spinning. I had been so sure that it was Theresa, and now suddenly everything was turned upside down again!

  Could she have been telling the truth? Was it really as simple as that? That instead of poisoning Dame Eccleston, she was actually stealing a piece of her cake? I shook my head. It was ludicrous. So ludicrous, in fact, that I was actually inclined to believe her. I mean, come on—if you were going to think up an excuse, surely you’d come up with a better one than that?

  Then I stopped in my tracks. Something else, much more important, just hit me: if Theresa Bell was telling the truth and she had eaten the rest of Dame Eccleston’s leftover cake, then that meant that the cake couldn’t have been poisoned after all! Because otherwise, Theresa would have been affected too. And I was sure, with her paranoia and tendency to exaggerate, if there had been even a hint of discomfort after eating that cake, Theresa would have broadcasted it to the whole of Oxfordshire.

  So what did that mean? That the poison which had killed Dame Eccleston hadn’t been in the cake after all? And yet… the post-mortem had showed very clearly that Dame Eccleston had been poisoned… and it also confirmed that she had only had Victoria sponge cake in her stomach…

  The sound of a voice broke into my thoughts. I looked around, puzzled. Where was it coming from? It sounded like a man, speaking in a low crooning tone, like the way one would to a lover or a beloved child. I listened again—the voice was coming from behind a low stone wall on my right. It was the Vicarage, I realised. Someone was speaking in the Vicarage gardens. I wheeled my bike over to the wall and I peered through a gap in the foliage. Was it the vicar? I was sure Audrey had mentioned that her brother wasn’t back from his honeymoon until next week. So who could it be?

  Then I saw the figure hunched down in the flower bed on the other side of the wall and the answer came to me. Of course. Joseph the gardener. I remembered now: Dame Eccleston’s domineering manner at the cat show when she had practically ordered Audrey to have Joseph re-do the Vicarage gardens. Audrey must have followed her friend’s dictate. It seemed that even after death, Clare Eccleston was still managing to exert her influence.

  In front of me, the gardener carefully lowered a bulb into a depression in the soil, then gently brushed the surrounding earth into place around the young shoot, his fingers stroking lovingly. I heard that soft, crooning voice again:

  “… like it here, you will, my pretty ones… aye, nice, warm sun in the afternoons an’ a bit o’ shelter from the wind an’ rain… s’good home for you… ’course not as nice as the garden at Eccleston but s’all right, no harm will come to you here… and them flowers at Eccleston—am worried about ’em… don’t like Mr Edwin… don’t think he’ll care ’bout the garden… told Miss Mary, he did, that when Dame Eccleston is dead, they’ll be free to do anything they—”

  I gasped. Joseph looked up. He saw me and his eyes went hard. He stood up.

  “Joseph,” I said urgently. “What was that you said? About Edwin and Mary? It was something you overheard, wasn’t it?”

  He said nothing, just stood there staring at me, his face blank.

  I exhaled in frustration. How could I make him talk?

  Then a fragment of conversation came back to me. That day I had been at the Eccleston House and Mary had come out to find me and Joseph together… she had made that odd comment: “…he doesn’t really speak, unless you talk to his plants.” I thought she had made a mistake—a slip of the tongue—and that she had meant to say: “he doesn’t really speak, unless you talk about his plants”. But now I wondered if “to” had been exactly what Mary had meant to say.

  In a sudden flash of understanding, it came to me: how to communicate with Joseph. I shifted my gaze from his and dropped it to the row of bulbs at his feet. Should I try it? It was so silly… but what did I have to lose? Only my dignity—and my claim to sanity, if anyone should come past, I thought wryly. Still, surely it was worth a try? I took a deep breath, plastered a smile to my face, and said:

  “Uh… um… hello, seedlings… are you comfortably settled in there? Is… uh… the soil nice and soft for you?”

  Oh God, this is ridiculous, I thought. I must be crazy, standing here, talking to a bunch of hyacinth bulbs! I stole a glance at Joseph. He was looking at me, an expression of surprise on his face. I squirmed, then took another deep breath and continued:

  “It… um… must have been a rough ride from the garden centre but I hope that you’ve… er… got over the shock of it now. This is a nice spot that Joseph has chosen for you, here in the shelter of the wall. You’re probably waiting for a nice drink of water, aren’t you? I wonder how you like your water—straight from the tap or warmed up a little in a watering can?”

  “Like it cold an’ fresh, they do.”

  I was so shocked to hear Joseph’s voice that I nearly fell over the wall. I glanced at him quickly but he was looking determinedly at the bulbs, not meeting my eyes. Still, I was encouraged. I cleared my throat and addressed the bulbs again:

  “Yes, you must be very thirsty after your journey from the garden centre. What… um… what about fertiliser? Is there a kind—I mean, a flavour that you really like?”

  “Bone meal,” said Joseph. “Them’s the favourite. Got good phosphorous for the bulbs. Like a feeding o’ compost as well when they’re just starting out.” He looked down at the bulbs with fatherly pride.

  Right. I’m having a conversation about a possible murderer, via some flower bulbs. Talk about surreal.

  Still, I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I continued glibly, “You must be so happy with your new home. The Vicarage has a lovely garden—though not as lovely as Eccleston House, of course…” I glanced at Joseph and hurriedly continued, “Now, those gardens are really old and the flowers there must have seen a lot. I can just imagine what great stories they would have to tell! All the conversations they must have overheard… like… last week when Edwin and Mary were talking… Could the… er… foxgloves hear them?”

  There was a long pause and I thought maybe I’d lost him, then Joseph said, “No, foxgloves couldn’t hear ’em. Too far away, they were. But the daisies—them’s cheeky flowers. They heard ’em. I was deadheading ’em when Mr Edwin an’ Miss Mary came past.”

  “Did they see you?” I blurted out.

  Joseph shook his head slowly. “Rosemary was in the way.”

  “Who? Oh, you mean rosemary the plant.” I thought back to the Eccleston House grounds and remembered the tall stand of rosemary hedge which had been planted down the centre of the rear garden, acting as a sort of ornamental screen dividing the two sides. Joseph must have been crouched behind it, working, on one side, whilst Edwin and Mary had walked past on the other.

  “And what were Edwin and Mary talking about? I mean, what did the daisies hear?” I amended hastily.

  Joseph frowned. “He was telling her they oughta be married, Mr Edwin was, but Miss Mary was having none o’ it. Said her mum—that’s Dame Eccleston—said she wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Yes, and then? What did Mr Edwin say after that?�
� I prompted, holding my breath.

  “He said don’t worry. Said when Dame Ecclestone’s dead, they’d be free, he reckoned, an’ they can do anything they like.”

  I let out my breath slowly. “Did he say anything else?”

  Joseph thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “What about Miss Mary? Did she… did she agree with him?”

  “Scared o’ everything, she is, Miss Mary. Just like the Mimosa Pudica. Touch-Me-Not Plant, it’s called. On account o’ it closing up its leaves if you touch it. Miss Mary’s like that.”

  “Er… right,” I said, slightly lost. “Well, thank you, Joseph. It was nice… er… chatting to you and… er… the hyacinths.”

  He didn’t respond, crouching down next to the bulbs again. I stood for a moment looking down at his bent head and wondering how I was going to explain all this to Devlin. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had disobeyed him and questioned Theresa Bell, now I had to tell him that I had a witness willing to testify against Edwin—except that you had to bring a pot of geraniums to court and ask all the questions through the flowers! I giggled in spite of myself as I started walking again, wheeling my bike away from the Vicarage.

  Then I sobered. Hmm. Somehow I didn’t think Devlin was going to see the funny side. Still, I couldn’t put it off any longer. These revelations were too important. Devlin had to be told. I took out my phone and rang Devlin’s mobile. It went straight to answerphone. Frowning, I tried the police station instead and got put through to the CID offices. A familiar cocky young voice came on the line and, for once, I was pleased. Another CID officer might not have been willing to speak to me, but Devlin’s sergeant knew me and knew that I’d helped out on investigations before. I asked him where Devlin was.

  “The guv’nor? He’s out in Oxford, interviewing this bookseller.”

  “Edwin Perkins?” I said quickly.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Said he wanted to have another go at Perkins.”