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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Seth!” I gave him an affectionate, exasperated look. “I don’t think knowing the molecular action of cardiac glycosides is going to help us find the killer.”

  “Sorry,” said Seth with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, my point was, it doesn’t even have to be foxgloves—there’s a whole host of other plants that the poison could be derived from.”

  “Well, I think you should stick with foxgloves. It’s the most common and likely—why complicate things?” Cassie said. She looked at me suddenly. “Are there foxgloves at Eccleston House, by the way?”

  “Y-yes,” I said reluctantly. “Why?”

  “Well, we can’t forget that Mary Eccleston is one of the suspects too. In fact, I would have thought that she’d be even more of a likely candidate than Theresa Bell—or that weird gardener chap. Mary was on the spot, she could have easily slipped poison into the piece of cake she gave her mother, she had a lot to gain by her mother’s death—”

  “It’s not Mary,” I said stubbornly. “I have a gut instinct that it’s not her…”

  “Gut instincts can be wrong,” Cassie said.

  “Anyway, there’s a bigger problem now,” I said. “If Theresa Bell is telling the truth, then that means that she ate all of the cake left on Dame Eccleston’s plate. And yet she was fine. Which suggests that the poison wasn’t in the cake after all. So how on earth was Clare Eccleston poisoned?”

  “Hmm… you’ve stumped me,” said Cassie, frowning.

  “She didn’t drink anything, did she?” asked Seth.

  “Not that I know of—and the autopsy report only mentioned Victoria sponge cake identified in her stomach contents.” I shook my head in frustration. “I feel like this is the key to the whole mystery. It’s been eluding us from the beginning. First we thought the poison was in a fake angina pill… but that turned out to be legit. Then we thought the poison was in the cake… but it couldn’t have been since several of us ate the same cake and were fine. Then we thought that it was only added to Dame Eccleston’s piece of cake, after it was cut and given to her… but now it seems that Theresa Bell had some of the same piece as well, and had no symptoms.” I spread my hands. “So where was the poison? If we could only work that out, I have a feeling we’d crack the case.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I had a restless night and although I hated proving Cassie right, I was bleary-eyed and grumpy in the tearoom the next morning. I knew that Oxfordshire CID would be a hive of excitement and activity today, with a big operation underway to raid and capture the Agri-Crime gang based on information Devlin had gleaned from Edwin Perkins. The murder enquiry would be relegated to the back burner until that operation had been successfully completed.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. As I opened up the tearoom and welcomed the first customers, my mind kept returning to that conundrum: Where had the poison been placed? I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something—some vital clue—that I had seen or overheard. I frowned, thinking back over the events of the last few days… was it something my mother had said? Or something the Old Biddies had mentioned? Or even something Seth had said last night…? I had a feeling it was all of those things, and yet I couldn’t put a finger on anything specific. It was very frustrating.

  The tearoom had barely been open twenty minutes when my phone rang and I was surprised to hear the voice at the other end of the line. It was Jo Ling.

  “Oh, hello, Dr Ling—”

  “Please, call me Jo,” she said and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Lincoln gave me your number—”

  “I’ve been meaning to ring you, actually,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to thank you for pushing that post-mortem through so quickly and staying late in your own time to do it.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Jo said. “I was just doing my job. In fact, that was the reason I was ringing you—the toxicology reports have come back. I’ve sent a report over to Dev already but I know he’s tied up today and I thought you might like to know first, rather than wait for him to pass them on to you.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, pleasantly surprised. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “That’s okay. I got the sense that this was really important to you. I’m probably breaking a million police rules sharing this information with a member of the public…” She gave a tinkling laugh, showing how little she cared about following the rules. “But anyway, I trust you, Gemma. Okay, so the results show that the poison which killed Clare Eccleston was convallatoxin.”

  “Conva-what?”

  “Convallatoxin. It’s a cardio glycoside, similar to the digitalis compounds, except that it comes from a different plant: Convallaria majalis, otherwise known as the lily of the valley.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, suddenly remembering Seth rambling in the pub the night before about other plants which contained cardiac glycosides. “So you mean we’ve been going down totally the wrong path? We kept thinking that it was digitalis and thinking of foxgloves—”

  “Well, not totally wrong. I mean, you find lily of the valley growing in many English gardens too. It’s a common native flower—it’s very popular for use in bridal bouquets, you know, because the dainty white flowers are so pretty. Of course, most people don’t realise how toxic it is—even the water that the cut stalks are put into can be poisonous if drunk.”

  “Is it as powerful as digitalis?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. It’s actually got an even narrower margin of safety than digitalis, which is probably why it was never developed for pharmaceutical use.”

  “Thanks for telling me all this,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No probs. I hope it might be useful. Now, I’ve got a question for you,” she said, her tone lightening. “You’re an old friend of Lincoln’s, right?”

  “Yes, well, our mothers are best friends and we knew each other as children,” I said. “Why?’

  “Do you know if he has any phobias? The doctors’ mess has got its monthly Social Night coming up and a bunch of us are going to do a comedy sketch. I wanted to do one of Lincoln and I need some fodder.” She chuckled.

  “Oh… um…” I wracked my brains. “Well, he isn’t scared of spiders or snakes or anything like that—from what I remember.”

  “What about foods? Anything he really can’t stand?”

  “I don’t think he likes custard much,” I said. “I remember when we were children and his family came over for lunches and things, he always refused to have custard on his desserts. But that was a long time ago. You know, we were both away from Oxford—we both only came back recently—so I haven’t seen him for years. He might have changed since then.”

  “Hah! I doubt it. Stuff you hate in childhood sticks with you, I think. Ooh… custard… I could do a lot with custard…” Jo gave a wicked laugh.

  “Er… well, I hope you guys have a good time.”

  “Oh we will! Thanks, Gemma, this is brilliant. Cheers!”

  I hung up and stared at my phone. But before I could think about the call further, my phone rang once more. This time, it was my mother.

  “Darling, I’m just about to drive out to Eccleston House and I was wondering if you’d like me to stop off at the garden centre and pick up those water lilies for you? They still have that sale on and it’s a really marvellous value, you know.”

  “No, thanks, Mother. I told you, I don’t want any water lilies. Why are you going over to Eccleston House?” I asked, curious.

  “Oh, Mary sent me a note last night, asking me to meet her there this morning. She said she had something she wanted to show me. It sounded quite urgent.”

  “About the murder?”

  “I don’t know, darling, the note didn’t say. I’m sure I shall find out soon—I’m leaving now. Are you sure about the water lilies? Because I think they would make the most fabulous display in the tearoom. In fact, you could even move the water feature to the centre of the room—I don’t know why you have it tucked around t
he side of the counter like that, anyone would think you were ashamed of it!—and then you could fill it with water lilies and maybe even get some goldfish—”

  “No, no, Mother! No water lilies or goldfish or anything else,” I said desperately. I glanced up to see Cassie signalling from the other side of the dining room, trying to catch my attention. Hurriedly, I said, “Thank you for the thought, Mother, it’s very sweet of you. But honestly, I think the water feature is… uh… fine as it is. I’m sorry—I’ve got to go now. I’ll ring you later, okay?”

  I hung up with some relief and looked in the direction that Cassie was pointing. I groaned inwardly as I saw a familiar figure come through the tearoom door: the same balding head, sycophantic smile, and shiny grey suit. It was the salesman with the novelty spoons. I remembered now: we had told him to come back later in the week. I sighed. I might as well see him and get it over with. It was obvious he wasn’t going to go away.

  He beamed as I went up to him. “Miss Rose? Thank you for making the time to see me. I promise you, you will love our products—you will not find the same quality anywhere else and I am sure your customers would appreciate the—”

  I held my hand up, stopping him mid-flow. “Why don’t we go in the kitchen, Mr… er…?”

  “Baxter,” he said, taking my hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Certainly, certainly—and I’ve brought a selection of spoons to show you.” He brandished a small travel case.

  I led him into the big, comfortable tearoom kitchen which was filled as usual with the wonderful smell of fresh baking. Trays of freshly baked scones, muffins, and Chelsea buns lay on the side counters and, at the large wooden table in the centre, Dora was up to her elbows in flour as she expertly kneaded a large lump of dough. She looked up as we came in and I was pleased to see that she was wearing a new pair of reading glasses. They suited her, giving her a Mrs Claus sort of look.

  “Dora, this is Mr Baxter,” I explained. “He’s got some items to show us—er, novelty chocolate spoons, is that right?” I turned to the salesman.

  “Not just any chocolate spoon!” he exclaimed, his chest swelling importantly. “We pride ourselves on only using the finest quality Belgian couverture chocolate, and premium ingredients which are all minimally processed. You can be assured that there won’t be any unpleasant artificial flavourings or preservatives in our products. And all our chocolate spoons are hand-made in our gourmet kitchen. They are practically works of art!”

  As he was speaking, he was busily unpacking his case and taking out several chocolate-coated spoons, which he laid out on the wooden table.

  “This is our Classic range—beautiful rich dark chocolate, creamy milk chocolate, and lovely vanilla-scented white chocolate… and then there is our Specialty range, with Salted Caramel—this is one of our bestsellers!—and Mini Marshmallows which melt beautifully in your drink… and Mocha, which is a blend of chocolate with pure espresso beans…” He raised his hands with a flourish, like a magician about to begin a conjuring trick. “And now! I will demonstrate…”

  Dora and I watched, slightly bemused, as the man took a thermos and mug out of his case and proceeded to pour a cup of hot coffee out of the thermos.

  “There, you see? An ordinary cup of coffee… ah… but as you stir in one of our spoons, it will become extraordinary!” He demonstrated with one of the chocolate spoons he had brought, stirring it into the hot liquid. “Watch how the chocolate melts off the spoon, to swirl into the coffee and give it a completely new flavour and complexity! Even just the act of stirring the spoon will give pleasure—a moment out of your busy lives—and you don’t have to worry about adding anything to your drink. The spoon does it all for you, giving you a delicious—”

  “Wait, what did you say?” I burst out.

  The salesman paused with his mouth open.

  I stared at the mug of coffee in his hand, watching the way the chocolate melted slowly off the wooden spoon and mixed with the hot liquid.

  I jabbed my finger frantically at the mug. “That bit you just said—about not having to add anything to the drink… the spoon does it all for you… OH MY GOD!” I gasped. “I know how Dame Eccleston was poisoned!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Leaving Dora and Mr Baxter staring open-mouthed after me, I dashed out of the kitchen and ran to the counter, nearly crashing into Cassie.

  “Gemma! What’s the matter…?”

  She stared as I fumbled around under the counter, trying to find my phone. Where had I put it? I dredged my memory, trying to remember: I had been talking to my mother… and then I had seen the salesman come in… and I had put my phone down and gone to greet him… Ah! Here it is. I snatched the phone up and dialled the number for Eccleston House.

  “It was on the fork,” I said in a breathless whisper to Cassie as I waited for the call to be answered. “The poison—it was on the fork! We never thought of that! We kept thinking of the poison being added to the cake—but the murderer was cleverer than that. The fork that Dame Eccleston used must have been coated with the poison. That’s why Theresa Bell ate the same piece of cake and never got sick. Because she used her fingers and the poison was only on the fork. Whereas Clare Eccleston would have put the fork completely in her mouth and probably licked all the jam and cream off as she was eating, unknowingly licking all the poison off as well!”

  Cassie looked uncertain. “But… in that case, doesn’t that point the finger at Mary? I mean, she was the one who cut up the cakes and served them.”

  “Yes, but I just remembered something,” I said hurriedly. “That day when I drove Mary home from the fête, I helped her carry some stuff from the car to an anteroom, where they kept all their cat show paraphernalia. Mary was rambling a bit—I think she was still in shock—but I distinctly remember her mentioning a bunch of picnic forks lying on a bench.” I leaned towards Cassie. “She said she had been looking everywhere for them; she didn’t realise until then that she had left them behind by mistake.”

  “So?”

  “So it means that somebody else provided her with the forks for the cakes! We all had a fork to eat with—but Mary hadn’t brought any from home—so where had she got them from? I need to ask her…” I frowned as the phone continued to ring in my ear. “Where is she…?”

  “Maybe she’s not home,” Cassie suggested. “Maybe she’s at St Cecilia’s?”

  “It’s the weekend—I didn’t think… Oh well, I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.” I hung up and tried the college number. In a minute, I was put through to the college admin offices.

  “Oh, hi—Gemma,” Mary sounded surprised to hear from me. “Yes, I decided to come into college and do some extra paperwork. The offices aren’t usually open on the weekends but I… I didn’t really want to stay in the house. It’s the first weekend since… since Mummy died…” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, did you want me for anything in particular?”

  “Yes, listen, Mary, at the fête last weekend, you cut up and served the Victoria sponge cake, right?”

  “Yes.” She sounded puzzled.

  “Where did you get the forks from? You said you left your own forks at home—so where did you get the ones that we were eating with?”

  “Oh…” She was silent for a moment. “I can’t really remember… I wasn’t paying much attention, to tell you the truth. I think… I think Aunt Audrey was helping me pass the plates around to everyone, so she must have been the one to add the forks. I guess she had some with her in her basket.”

  I froze, unable to believe my ears. “Audrey?”

  Suddenly, several things flashed in my mind, like a camera coming sharply into focus: Jo Ling identifying the poison as convallatoxin, found naturally in the lily of the valley—a popular component of bridal bouquets because of its dainty, bell-shaped white flowers … me arriving with Muesli for her assessment at the Vicarage and admiring the border of ivy and dark green plants with dainty white flowers… Audrey talking about making home-made perfume, steeping the flow
ers in water to extract their active ingredients… and Jo Ling’s voice again saying: “…you find lily of the valley growing in many English gardens too. It’s a common native flower… Of course, most people don’t realise how toxic it is—even the water that the cut stalks are put into can be poisonous if drunk.”

  I felt like my head was spinning. It was Audrey all along.

  Then I remembered something else: yesterday, while we were at the Vicarage for Muesli’s assessment, my mother had commented that she saw Audrey taking home a jar of jam from the fête. Audrey had denied it… I thought again of a Victoria sponge cake, slathered in fresh cream and luscious strawberry jam… It would be so easy to dip a fork in some poisoned jam and then add that fork to a plate. Red jam looks much the same wherever it’s from. Dame Eccleston, on picking up the fork and starting to eat the cake, would never guess that the strawberry jam already smeared on the fork was from a different source. And once the fork was licked clean in the course of eating, all traces of poison would disappear. There would be no worry of pieces of cake found afterwards with the incriminating poison.

  It was so ingenious. Audrey knew her friend’s habits—she knew that Clare normally brought her own cakes to cat shows and that, as a close friend, she would be invited to take part. She simply had to stand by and wait for her opportunity. She had her fork ready—and the jar of poisoned jam, cleverly hidden amongst the other jars in her basket. All she had to do afterwards was keep the poisoned jar aside and quietly take it home at the end of the day… No one would have ever suspected, no one would have known—except for my mother, who had seen her taking that incriminating jar of jam home…

  My stomach gave a lurch and I felt a chill come over me.

  …no one would have known—except for my mother…