Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2)

by H. Y. Hanna

  Mabel and the other Old Biddies exchanged a look, then they stood up in unison. Mabel turned to me, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows.

  “Come on, dear. We’ll give you a hand.”

  “Oh, no, there’s really no need—”

  “Nonsense! We can see that you’re rushed off your feet,” said Glenda, taking the tray out of my hands.

  The other three marched to the counter and began helping themselves to various crockery and food items there. I watched in a slight daze as Florence assembled a tray with a Shelley Rosebud bone china teapot and cups, a matching jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar, whilst Ethel whisked a plate of warm scones with jam and clotted cream off to the table of Japanese tourists and Mabel took charge of the menus and order pads. They were bustling off to different corners of the tearoom before I could protest and, to be honest, I was too grateful for the help to object much.

  And if I’d been unsure about how the customers would react, I was pleasantly surprised. If anything, they seemed to be delighted to be served by what looked like quintessential sweet old ladies—for the tourists, especially, this fit the image of a traditional English tearoom perfectly. As for the old dears themselves, any guilt I might have felt was mollified by the fact that they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. In fact, they seemed to be relishing the opportunity to chat to people at the tables (and meddle in their businesses, no doubt).

  In no time at all, peace and contentment were restored to the tearoom and I was able to sit down for a moment for a much-deserved rest behind the counter. It was all going to be fine now, I told myself with a sigh of relief. Still, I couldn’t quite shake off the uneasy feeling that this was just the calm before the storm…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was nearly twelve o’clock when the door swung open and Cassie finally stepped into the tearoom with a sheepish expression on her face. She came rushing up to me.

  “Oh, God, Gemma—I’m so sorry! I completely overslept this morning! We stayed at Jon’s place last night and didn’t get to sleep till the early hours…” She blushed slightly, leaving me in no doubt as to what they were doing up so late. “I thought he’d like a bit of company, you know, after what had happened at the gallery… Anyway, when I woke up this morning and realised the time, I got here as fast as I could.”

  I swallowed my annoyance. After all, everyone mucked up sometimes and last night’s fiasco probably gave her a better excuse than most.

  “No worries, as my friends Down Under would say,” I said, giving her a smile. “The Old Biddies decided to help out.”

  “The Old Biddies!” Cassie turned and looked disbelievingly at the white-haired figures bustling around the room. “You’re not serious!”

  “Uh… Actually, they’ve been really good,” I said. “In fact, the customers seem to love them and the whole place seems to be running a lot smoother.”

  Cassie looked shamefaced again. “Sorry—I know I must have left you in the lurch, especially with Sunday being one of our busiest days.”

  “That’s okay. So how’s Jon?”

  “Oh, the poor thing… It was such a horrible shock for him, having someone collapse like that in his gallery.”

  “And someone he knew too,” I said.

  Cassie frowned. “Well, not very well. She wasn’t much more than a customer, really. It wasn’t like Jon knew her personally or anything.”

  “Did the police believe that?”

  “Why shouldn’t they?” Cassie flared.

  I bit my tongue. “No, no reason. I just thought… you know how police can be so suspicious sometimes…”

  Cassie scowled. “Bloody right! I don’t know what Devlin’s playing at. I used to think that he was a pretty decent guy, but he’s acting like a complete plonker in this instance! Anyone can see that Jon’s the victim there. That girl was totally barmy and making poor Jon’s life a misery—and all he did was try to provide the best service for his clients!”

  Cassie’s voice had rose shrilly in indignation and customers at several tables turned around to stare. I glanced at them, then caught Cassie’s arm and pulled her out of the dining room. We went into the little shop area adjoining the main tearoom, selling Oxford souvenirs and English tea paraphernalia, where we could have some privacy.

  “The Old Biddies seem to think that the waitress who was at the bar last night might be involved. Her name’s Fiona Stanley, apparently. Did you hear the police mention her?” I asked.

  Cassie frowned. “Yeah, I did hear Devlin say something about that to his sergeant. The girl’s a student here at the University, isn’t she?”

  I nodded. “And so was Sarah. In fact, they were both in the same year, doing Fine Art.”

  Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Fine Art? Really?”

  Cassie had read Fine Art at Oxford herself, whilst I had done English. We’d been delighted when we had both been accepted and our close friendship, which had started in primary school, continued strong through our university years. In fact, even my moving to the other side of the world for eight years hadn’t threatened our friendship. Nothing had ever come between Cassie and me. Except Jon Kelsey, I thought sourly.

  Aloud, I asked, “Would Sarah and Fiona have had much to do with each other?”

  Cassie shrugged. “It’s a pretty small department—the new intake is no more than thirty students each year—and it’s got a very intimate feel; everyone works alongside each other in the studios. In fact, all the teaching is done in the department rather than in the colleges.”

  “Oh?” I was surprised to hear that.

  One of the ways Oxford was so different from most other universities in the world was its collegiate “tutorial system”. Basically, this meant that you were taught individually or in small groups of two and three, by the respective dons in their subjects at their colleges. Oh, you might have lectures in the department buildings and some subjects, like the sciences, had practical laboratory sessions, but most of your learning wasn’t done in classrooms but in private, one-to-one sessions where you were challenged to analyse, defend, and critique the ideas of your own and others, in in-depth essays and conversations with your tutor and fellow students. There was no hiding at the back of the class or learning things by rote at Oxford—and if there was one thing you graduated with, it was a finely honed skill of independent, critical thinking.

  The tutorials—especially in the arts—were usually based in your affiliated college, but it sounded like Fine Art was unusual in having them based at the department. Did that mean that Sarah and Fiona had been in tutorials together? Had there been friction between them? Competition? Jealousy?

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that waitress was involved,” said Cassie darkly. “Didn’t Mabel say at the party that they saw her making tea for Sarah and putting poison in the cup?”

  “They didn’t actually see Fiona doing anything,” I said quickly. “It was just a theory. And we won’t know for sure yet if Sarah was poisoned until the post-mortem results come back.” I sighed. “I don’t know… The thought that Fiona might poison a fellow student seems so far-fetched…”

  “A lot less far-fetched than imagining that Jon had anything to do with it!” said Cassie hotly.

  “Yes, well… did he explain his connection with Sarah to the police?”

  Cassie nodded. “Yeah, he told them the same story he told us. He hadn’t seen Sarah since the time they had their last argument in London, when he told her that she had to back off otherwise he was going to report her for harassment. And she made a terrible scene at his gallery in London. His assistant verified that. She was there and witnessed the whole thing…”

  She trailed off as she saw my expression. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly.

  “You don’t believe him, do you?” she said accusingly.

  I gave a helpless shrug. “Cassie—you have to admit, you’ve only known Jon a few weeks…” I hesitated, then plunged on. “You don’t really know anything abou
t his past, do you? There might have been more between him and Sarah than he’s letting on.”

  Cassie’s eyes flashed. “I don’t believe it! Are you telling me that you suspect Jon as well?”

  “I—”

  “You do! You think he might be involved in this murder!”

  “Cassie—”

  “No, don’t deny it! I know you don’t like him, Gemma—you try to hide it but I can tell. You’ve got a thing against Jon and you’re ready to believe the worst of him!”

  “Cass, no, you’ve got it all wrong!” I protested. I took a deep breath. I needed to calm her down and if that meant telling a few fibs… “I do like Jon! I think it’s wonderful that you’re so happy him. I didn’t mean that he might be involved in the girl’s murder—but I just thought… well, you know… he is a very attractive man… it would be weird if he hadn’t had any girlfriends before you. And maybe he did go out with Sarah but just didn’t want to let you know because… because he loves you so much and thinks that might hurt your feelings.”

  It was cheesy and lame but Cassie was so blind where Jon was concerned, I didn’t think she’d notice. I was right. She looked slightly mollified.

  “Well, I think he’s telling the truth about her just being a customer,” she said stubbornly.

  I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’re probably right. Sorry, it was a stupid idea…”

  We returned to the main dining room but Cassie remained in an irritable, distracted mood for the rest of the day. In fact, even though she was back, she was much less of a help than she should have been, and if it hadn’t been for the Old Biddies, things would have still been a shambles. As it was, we finally weathered the lunchtime rush and all managed to sit down with a sigh of relief as the tearoom emptied out again by three o’clock.

  “Mabel, Glenda, Florence, Ethel… I really don’t know how to thank you all,” I said to them with a warm smile. “You were wonderful.”

  “Tosh, dear—we enjoyed it!” said Glenda whilst the others nodded.

  I had to admit that they looked very well, their cheeks flushed and their eyes bright from the extra activity. And I was amazed at their stamina—for little old ladies, they sure had incredible energy. They seemed far less tired than me after several hours of running around on their feet!

  “Any time you need an extra pair of hands, just let us know,” said Ethel.

  “Yes, we don’t do anything much these days since retiring,” said Florence. “It’s nice for us to feel useful.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a thank you but all your meals this week in the tearoom are on me—and please help yourself to anything you like from the kitchen!” I said.

  “Ooh, in that case, I must sample a bit of that new Velvet Cheesecake your mother’s made,” said Florence.

  “Yes, and the muffins looked fabulous too,” said Glenda.

  “Pot of tea?” said Ethel, getting up and heading to the kitchen.

  The others followed her, already chattering excitedly about what they were going to eat. I glanced at Cassie—she had been very quiet—and I found her looking down at her phone. She seemed to be busy texting something.

  “Cassie? Fancy a cup of tea?”

  She looked up, an embarrassed expression on her face. “Er… actually, Gemma, if you don’t mind… I think I might push off early today? You’ve got the Old Biddies here anyway and everything seems to be under control. It’s just that… well, you know I’m going to Florence with Jon. We’re flying tomorrow morning and he said he’s taking me out for an early dinner… and then I’d really like to get home and pack…”

  I felt that flash of annoyance again, mingled with hurt, but I hurriedly squashed the feelings. I should have been pleased for Cassie and excited for her. Of course she’d want to prepare for her romantic trip away. And if she’d rather spend time with Jon than with me… well, that was pretty natural too.

  I swallowed and plastered a smile on my face. “Sure, no problem. Have a great time in Florence!”

  “Thanks—I’ll see you on Wednesday,” she said, giving me a quick hug. Then she took off her apron, grabbed her things, and hurried out the front door.

  I watched her go with troubled eyes, unable to shake the feeling that my friend was gradually slipping away from me.

  The rest of the afternoon passed fairly quietly. We had our usual resurgence at around four o’clock tea time but nothing that we couldn’t handle. In fact, the Old Biddies and I were starting to develop a rhythm, working together as a team, and I found myself enjoying their company more than ever before.

  Just before we were closing, a black Jaguar XK pulled up at the curb outside the tearoom and a tall, dark-haired man stepped out of the driver’s seat. It was Devlin.

  “Gemma… Can I have a word?” He said as he stepped in. He glanced around the room, noting the Old Biddies watching him with bright, beady eyes. “In private,” he added.

  “How about the courtyard outside?” I asked. “It’s a bit chilly but we wouldn’t be overheard.”

  Devlin nodded and followed me out to the little courtyard adjoining the tearoom. This used to be the stable yard adjoining the old inn, and it still retained much of its original period charm, with cobblestones and whitewashed walls, and even an ancient horseshoe still nailed to the wall by the stable doors. There were a few wooden picnic tables in the courtyard and I planned to add big tubs of flowers when summer arrived—it would make a very pretty extension to the main tearoom, somewhere to enjoy the sunshine while having your tea and cakes. Right now, though, it was cold and bare—but it would serve our purposes.

  “What do you know about Jon Kelsey?” said Devlin without preamble.

  “I don’t know much about him,” I said cautiously. “Cassie’s only been dating him for a few weeks.”

  “You said at the party that you didn’t like him.”

  “I… No, not really,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I added quickly.

  “No,” Devlin agreed. “But I have a lot of respect for your instincts, Gemma.”

  I flushed with pleasure. “Is Jon a suspect in the murder?”

  “Anyone who had any connection with the girl is considered a suspect until proven innocent,” said Devlin. “In this case, it’s certainly curious that she had a past connection to Jon Kelsey and died in his gallery.”

  “And the post-mortem? Have you got the results back yet?”

  Devlin regarded me silently for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind, then he said, “It’s definitely a suspicious death. There’s going to be an inquest. And yes, the belief is that she was poisoned.”

  Poisoned.

  That word hung in the air between us. It still sounded far too surreal and melodramatic and yet each time it was mentioned, it seemed to become a bit more real. And this wasn’t just the lurid speculation of a bunch of little old ladies anymore—this was the cold hard conclusion of a forensic pathologist.

  “So was it cyanide? That almond smell—”

  “They’re not sure yet,” said Devlin. “The toxicology analysis takes time.”

  “I don’t understand—why can’t you just look for the poison?”

  Devlin gave an impatient sigh. “It’s not that simple… Real life isn’t like what you see on TV. You can’t just run one test which will give you the exact name of the poison. You’ve got to do a bunch of tests and that will only tell you the general type of toxin to start with.”

  I frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, general type?”

  “It’s like… if the sample tests positive for heavy metals, it could be copper… or mercury… or lead, but you don’t know which one. So you have to test for each of those individually and that can take days, even weeks.”

  “But… don’t you just have fancy machines nowadays which you plug the sample into and it tells you the poison in it?”

  Devlin rolled his eyes. “You’ve really watched too many episodes of CSI. It’s not just about
the machines—anyone can run machines! It’s about the interpretation, the skill in reading the results. Samples might be contaminated, or it might be something that already exists in trace amounts in our bodies… like arsenic. We all have a bit of arsenic in our bodies, so the toxicologist has to take that into account.

  “But,” Devlin conceded, “knowing what to look for does help to speed things up. I’ve briefed the toxicologist to look for cyanide. So we should hopefully get the results for that soon. In the meantime, we can assume that Sarah Waltham was deliberately poisoned, possibly by someone at the party.”

  “So who’s the prime suspect? That girl, Fiona?”

  Devlin hesitated, then said, “I really shouldn’t be sharing details of the investigation with you, Gemma… but as you were so helpful on the last case and I know I can trust you to keep things confidential… Yes, Fiona Stanley is one of the key suspects.”

  “Did you know that she and Sarah were fellow students? They’re both doing Fine Art. The Old Biddies said there was bad blood between them.”

  “The Old Biddies?”

  I laughed. “Sorry, I forgot—it’s a nickname Cassie and I have for Mabel and her cronies.”

  “The Old Nosies might be more accurate,” said Devlin dryly. “But as usual, their information is spot-on. Yes, I questioned Fiona last night. I gather that she didn’t like Sarah much, but that’s hardly surprising. From what I’ve heard so far, Sarah Waltham was not a particularly likeable character. She was also a total snob and liked to lord it over the other students—particularly those like Fiona, who came from a working-class background.” He gave an ironic smile. “You and I know that Oxford’s elitist image isn’t necessarily true, but girls like Sarah really don’t help to dispel that stereotype.”

  “Did Fiona mention a past fight between her and Sarah?”