by Nancy Warren
Because I loved these two old ladies, I loyally said that I couldn’t imagine anyone ever making scones quite as delicious as those made by Mary Watt. It wasn’t just loyalty. It was actually true. What I didn’t say was that there was more to life than scones. Though not, perhaps, at teatime.
So I took a scone with pleasure, breaking open the golden treat, still warm from the oven. There was an argument between the people of Devon and the people of Cornwall about which way a person should eat a scone. One of them, and I could never remember which, insisted that jam had to go on first with the cream on top, while their rivals said exactly the opposite.
While this might suggest that the people of Cornwall and Devon didn’t have enough to do, I remained impartial by putting jam first and then cream on one side of my scone and cream first and then jam on the other side. I’d never noticed that it made much difference to the flavor, but now it had become a habit.
While I creamed and jammed my scone, I said, “Alistair Grendell-Smythe and Violet came here for lunch, didn’t they?”
As though I didn’t know.
The ladies were as delighted to gossip as I had hoped they’d be. Florence glanced around at the three occupied tables, but there was no one we knew in the restaurant who could possibly be interested in our conversation, and besides, they were all busy with their own food and company. She dropped her voice anyway and leaned in. Mary and I both mirrored the gesture, so we must’ve looked like conspirators.
“I’m not one to gossip,” Florence said, causing me to nearly choke on my scone, “but they looked quite cozy together.”
“Cozy? How so?” When Violet had returned, she’d been annoyingly coy about her lunch date.
“Well, I sat them at the best table in the window, of course. I’d have done it even if poor Alistair hadn’t just lost his father. He’s such a lovely young man. And of course, Violet is quite a favorite of ours.”
“That was kind of you,” I said, since something seemed to be required.
“I expected them to sit across the table from each other, but as soon as they were seated, Violet got up and moved her chair closer to Alistair’s.”
I could see how that could be termed cozy in their Victorian view of the world. “They never seemed to run out of things to talk about, and a couple of times I heard Alistair laugh. The sound was rusty, as though he hadn’t been amused in some time. She looked over at Mary—“they both had the roast beef with the mustard pickle.” She glanced over at the table as though picturing the two sitting cozily in the window, sharing their identical sandwiches. “And by the time they moved on to dessert—once more, they both chose the same thing, the Bakewell Tart—they were holding hands.”
I didn’t know what to say about the holding hands thing. I didn’t think it was particularly scandalous behavior, but I had to admit I was worried that things might be moving too rapidly. Alistair had only just lost his father under horrifying circumstances, and only a year after his mother had died. In fact, I suspected even his choice of dessert reflected his grief. “His mother used to make Bakewell Tart, you know. She used to make it for Charlie when he went there for dinner.”
Mary clucked her tongue. “Oh, yes, Charlie does love a good Bakewell Tart. He’s also very partial to mine, you know.” I had to bite back my smile. I suspected she was feeling a little defensive having a French Cordon Bleu-trained chef in her kitchen, so both Florence and I hastened to bolster her up, complimenting her on the excellence of her Bakewell Tart.
I had come here with sleuthing in mind, but the way the conversation had turned, I began to feel a little worried about Violet. While it was kind of her to spend time with Alistair, and they clearly liked each other, I hoped she wasn’t setting herself up for heartbreak. I didn’t know Alistair that well, but whatever he was normally like, he wasn’t himself right now and wouldn’t be for some time. I suspected any decent counselor would tell him not to get involved in a relationship right now. Even more important to me, a good counselor would tell Violet the same. He was a lovely guy, but he wasn’t a good bet for her at this time.
She’d looked so happy when she’d come back from lunch that I suspected she might be reading more into the lunch than Alistair meant her to. Perhaps it was the specter of Sophie Wynter haunting me, but I didn’t want Violet to end up in hopeless infatuation with someone who was currently unavailable.
I suspected Florence Watt was thinking along the same lines, for she looked troubled. “When I cleared away their dessert things, I couldn’t help but overhear Alistair invite Violet to dinner in a restaurant.”
“Well, that sounds friendly.”
She dropped her voice even more. “Violet laughed and said he was probably sick of restaurant food. She invited him to dinner at her cottage.”
This was indeed startling news, but for reasons the two old ladies couldn’t possibly know. Violet was no more of a cook than I was. If she was inviting Alistair to her cottage, I suspected—no, dreaded—that she might attempt to use witchcraft to enthrall him. It was a bad idea on every level. But how was I to talk sense into her?
Violet’s romantic past hadn’t been any more successful than mine. In fact, possibly less so. I knew she wanted a partner; I just hoped she’d do the usual, swipe left or swipe right, not a pinch of this and a pinch of that snuck into an unsuspecting man’s food or drink.
I’d think about that later, for now, I wanted to know more about the young men who used to come here for breakfast.
I said, “Did Alistair talk about his father’s death at all?”
They looked somewhat startled at my change of subject. Florence poured more tea. “As you know, I never eavesdrop on our customers’ conversations. That’s as bad as gossiping.”
I assured her with a straight face that I completely understood.
“However, I did happen to hear Alistair say that the coroner is going to open an inquest into the death of his father.” This wasn’t a surprise to me. I knew through my unofficial sources that the postmortem had been completed. Death had, indeed, been caused by the massive beam falling onto Rupert Grendell-Smythe. The good news, if it could be called that, was that death had been instantaneous. The bad news was that Rafe had been right. The beam had been tampered with.
Rupert Grendell-Smythe had been murdered.
“The poor young man sounded so upset, and who can blame him? He said to Violet, ‘Who would want to hurt such a nice old man who’d always been so kind to everyone?’”
I nodded. It seemed almost inconceivable to me that Alistair’s father had been the intended victim.
I knew from my experience with my grandmother that losing someone you loved to murder was a terrible burden to bear. Even though Gran was still in my life, she was a vampire now. It simply wasn’t the same. However, it was much worse for Alistair, as his father was truly gone. I was determined at least to get him the satisfaction of knowing the why behind such an evil action. The way British law worked, both the defendant to the charge of murder and the victim’s family had the right to subsequent further postmortem. It could be weeks or even months before Alistair could finally bury his father. Anything I could do to speed up that process, I would do.
Mary also knew the pain of losing someone she loved to murder. She was obviously thinking along the same lines I was. “It will be so much better for poor Alistair once he knows, then he can finally bury his poor dad and put him to rest beside his mother.”
Florence nodded. “At least he’s got the weekend to look forward to.”
We both glanced up at her. She looked somewhat embarrassed as she admitted that she had also overheard Alistair talking to Violet about plans for the weekend. “He said that Boris and Giles wanted to take him climbing, to take his mind off things.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “Alistair is horribly afraid of heights. It was a joke even when the boys were at school. He told Violet that their plan is to frighten him so much that it gives him a break from his grief.”
“W
ell, that’s one way.” I got the feeling that even though they were supposedly all grown up, when the former students got together, they regressed.
“And how are poor Charlie and Alice doing?” Mary asked me. “We haven’t seen them since the wedding. Such a terrible way to begin married life.”
“I know. In a way it would’ve been better for them if they had gone on that honeymoon, but I think they’re both too decent to even contemplate having a good time while poor Alistair is in such a state. Besides, they wanted to be here in case the police had further questions for them.”
Florence looked surprised. “The murder was nothing to do with them, surely?”
“I don’t think so either, but it did happen at their wedding.” An older couple came in at that moment. They were probably in their fifties and had that careworn look of people who have just come from a funeral or have been visiting someone they love in the hospital. Sort of stunned and disbelieving. Mary immediately got to her feet and went forward, welcoming them. It was clear that she knew them, and since I had never seen them before, I had to assume that neither of them cared for knitting.
Mary immediately led them to the nicest table by the window, so I knew that they were special clients.
Florence leaned close to me. “It’s so sad. You know I never gossip, but that couple all but lost their son to drugs. Everyone talks about the opioid crisis, you see it on the news, but it doesn’t really hit home until you see the pain it causes.”
I nodded and mumbled something sympathetic.
She shook her head. “And it happens in the nicest families.”
I felt like smacking myself upside the head. “You’re so right. It does.”
She nodded. “We even knew the son. Lovely boy. Polite and well-dressed and very good in school. And then he fell into the drugs. He’s nearly died twice, and the money they spent on rehab… Still, he’s their son, and they’d do anything for him.”
“Florence, do you know London very well?”
“Not terribly well, but I’ve spent time there over the years. Why do you ask?”
It was quite the change in subject. “I’m just wondering if you know Harlesden.”
Her eyebrows rose at that. “Not well, no. It’s in the northwest. Near Wembley.”
“Near Wembley? You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to bolt up there and then and follow an idea I’d suddenly had. Luckily, a group of six people arrived at the door, all speaking Italian. Since Mary was still busy with that careworn couple, Florence began to rise, making her apologies, and telling me she’d be back in a minute.
“I can see you’re getting busy. And I should get back to the shop. I’ll head out now. But thank you so much.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Lucy.” And then she went forward to greet her newest customers.
I had a trip to make. To Moreton-under-Wychwood.
Chapter 16
When I got back to Cardinal Woolsey’s, Violet was humming. She didn’t hum entirely in tune, but I was still fairly certain that was a love song. She was busily typing on the computer, but I doubted very much she was doing anything useful like checking the online orders. Sure enough, when I looked over her shoulder, she was Googling dinner recipes.
“Are you planning a dinner party? Am I invited?”
She glanced up at me, looking altogether too pleased with herself. “I’m having a very small dinner party. I’ve invited Alistair.”
I put my handbag away and went to open a new box of supplies that she’d conveniently ignored while conducting her personal business in my shop. I made a noisy production of cutting through the packing tape and getting the box open before I said, “That sounds pretty intimate for a first date.”
“Don’t be so old-fashioned. He’s staying in some stuffy hotel, and he’s dying for a home-cooked meal.”
I pulled out a stack of wool and turned to look at her. “Violet, he’s just lost his father in very mysterious circumstances. Do you really think it’s a good time to start a romance?”
Her happy expression faded. “You should be happy for me. I finally found a nice guy. Besides, I’m good for him. I can take his mind off his tragedy.”
“You can do that as his friend. I’m worried that you’re taking things too fast.”
She shook her head. “You know what they say about tragedy. It brings people closer.”
“I also know that it makes them do crazy things. Alistair isn’t himself right now.”
“What are you saying? That he’d never be interested in me under normal circumstances?” Now she sounded offended.
It wasn’t what I’d intended at all. “No. Any man would be lucky to have you. I’m saying that you should take things slowly. Be there as his friend and see if it turns into a romance. Don’t give away your heart too quickly.”
She made a big performance out of leaving the recipe website. “It’s only dinner.”
And she very ostentatiously grabbed a duster and began to dust the shelves, doing her best to knock a cloud of dust into my face.
Some people really didn’t take criticism well.
I put away the wools and gathered some packages that were ready to be mailed out. The online store was a fun and growing part of my business, and I enjoyed looking at where the packages were going. Some went no more than twenty miles outside of Oxford, and some traveled as far away as Europe, Asia and North America.
Since Violet was still in a snit with me, I was quite happy to leave her to it. “Do you mind closing up tonight? I’ve got these packages to mail and then a few errands to run.”
“No. That’s fine.” I knew darn well that the minute I left, she’d be back on the internet, looking up romantic recipes. So long as she looked after any customers who dropped in, I didn’t really mind.
I took the packages to the post office and then, instead of going back into the shop, walked around and got into my red car. As I headed to Moreton, I went over in my head a new theory I had. The more I thought about it, the more I believed it might be true.
When I drew up in the small parking lot behind the church, a wave of sadness washed over me. There were big signs and flagging tape across the front doors of St. John the Divine, warning people to stay out, that it wasn’t safe. The little car park was filled with the trucks and cars of workers who were presumably shoring up the roof of the church. It didn’t matter that the beam had been cut through. It was still full of deathwatch beetles, and without that beam, the roof was further weakened.
As I got out of the car, I could hear sounds of construction going on inside.
“Hello,” a voice said. “It’s Lucy, isn’t it?”
I turned to find Philip Wallington just coming out of the church. His red hard hat looked a bit ludicrous with his dark suit and clerical collar. He came closer and then removed the red hat from his head.
“That’s right. Lucy Swift. I see they’re already working on the church.”
“Had to be done. It was too dangerous and unstable to leave it. We have no idea how we’ll pay for it. The fundraising effort had barely begun, but we’ve got some very determined parishioners, and there’s a letter-writing campaign to try and get funding from every government agency and charity we can think of.”
“That’s good.” I thought of Emily Bloom. If the committee was made up of people like her, I suspected they’d end up with a surplus.
Philip looked at the church as though it was a mysterious place. “I came away from London, which was supposed to be dangerous, to this quiet hamlet where I expected peace. Instead, I watched a man killed in front of my eyes.”
“I know. It was awful.”
“Yes. Of course, you were there too.” He came closer to where I was still standing beside my car. “Did you come to see me? If you want to talk about what happened, I’ve always got time. It does help.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I didn’t come here for spiritual guidance.” He looked at me,
a slightly inquiring expression on his pleasant face. A lock of his brown hair had pulled up when he’d taken off the hardhat, making him look more like an unruly schoolboy than a vicar.
“I’ve been thinking about that terrible day.”
“So have I. I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“I keep wondering if there could be any connection between your work in London and what happened here.”
He didn’t say anything, but his bland expression sharpened.
So did mine. “You recognized someone in the congregation, didn’t you? Someone you knew in London when you were ministering to drug addicts.”
He shook his head before I’d even finished speaking, and the wayward tuft of hair waggled like a duck’s tail. “Lucy, you have no right to ask me questions like that. Those programs are conducted under the strictest secrecy. Lives can be ruined if the identities of those working to get better leak out. Addicts look like you and me on the surface. They can hide their problems for years and no one knows. Sometimes not even their families. It’s up to them if they want to talk about their challenges. I cannot betray a confidence.”
I understood his scruples, but I had to get past them. “Lives were ruined. Rupert Grendell-Smythe lost his.”
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I know you mean well. But I cannot betray the people who have come to me expecting that I will keep their confidences.”
I realized it was a very different experience trying to get information out of the vicar than it had been getting equally pertinent information out of Florence and Mary Watt. “I’m only trying to help, just like you. I’m not officially with any kind of law enforcement, of course, but if you ask around, you’ll find I do have some history of helping solve crimes in this area.”
He said, “I want to help you, but my hands are tied.”
Still, he didn’t walk away from me. I felt that he truly wanted to help me, but he was bound by whatever oaths he’d taken or promises he’d made to those he helped, and he clearly took them seriously.
