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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “I think at this stage, we may have to treat it as something serious that requires—”

  “Ahem… excuse me, sir?” The intern cleared his throat and spoke up for the first time.

  We all turned to stare at him. To be honest, I had completely forgotten that he was there. The young man flushed slightly under our gaze but continued doggedly:

  “I wonder if I might suggest something… before Miss Kempton is sent to the hospital… Just… just something which may have been overlooked?”

  Dr Foster’s brows drew together. “Overlooked? Overlooked? What are you going on about, young man?” he blustered. “You are here to watch and listen and learn, not to interfere—”

  “What were you thinking of?” I interrupted, looking at the intern encouragingly.

  He flushed again, then said, in a hesitant voice, “Well, I did wonder if… if Miss Kempton’s eyesight had been checked…?”

  Dr Foster stopped in the middle of his tirade and looked dumbfounded for a moment, then said gruffly, “Well, yes, of course… of course, that was the next thing I was going to suggest…” He turned back to Dora, picked up a leaflet from his desk and handed it to her. “Can you read that for me, please?”

  Dora looked at the piece of paper, then moved it farther and farther away, until her arm was stretched to its utmost. She squinted and said irritably, “Well, certainly… except that this print is most ridiculously small. Really! It is disgraceful the way they do things nowadays—I am sure text was printed much larger when I was younger but companies will do anything to cut corners these days—I suppose they’re trying to save paper and—”

  “Miss Kempton, can you read it?”

  Dora squinted again, then said stiffly, “I… um… well, not all of it.”

  Dr Foster leaned towards her. “I think you need to get reading glasses.”

  Dora looked at him suspiciously. “I’m sorry?”

  The doctor chuckled. “My dear, that is your problem. You have all the symptoms of presbyopia—otherwise known as ‘old eyes’.”

  Dora was indignant. “My eyes are fine! I have always had excellent eyesight.”

  “Well… ahem… you know, old age does get to us all,” said the intern diffidently.

  Both Dora and Dr Foster turned around to glare at him. I felt quite sorry for the intern.

  “He’s right,” I said. “And it makes perfect sense, Dora! That’s probably why you’ve been having so many accidents! In fact, if you misread the recipe ingredients in particular and think that the measures have an extra zero or something, that would account for a lot of things! You’d be adding ten or more times the amount needed—which could end up tasting awful or even cause some kind of chemical reaction, which might explain all the explosions!”

  “What a lot of nonsense!” Dora said.

  “You have to admit—you are finding it much harder to read recipe instructions, right? And the numbers on the measuring jug?”

  “Well, I… yes, sometimes… but that’s because the lighting in the tearoom kitchen is just dreadful,” said Dora. “I’m sure I’d be fine if it was brighter in there.”

  “It’s not that dark,” I protested with a laugh.

  Dr Foster acknowledged my comment with a smile. “Presbyopia is worse in dim light—it is one of the classic symptoms.”

  Dora shook her head emphatically. “No, no, you don’t understand. I know people’s eyesight tends to get worse as they get older. I had several colleagues—other college scouts—who had to get reading glasses when they got into their forties. But I never needed them. My eyes were always perfect,” Dora said proudly.

  “Not everyone ages the same way,” Dr Foster said. “It is true that most people start developing presbyopia around the age of forty but it varies. Some people don’t need glasses until much later and a few lucky ones don’t ever need them. I knew a lady who lived to her late nineties, who could still read perfectly fine with no visual aids. But that is extremely rare.”

  “What causes it?” I asked, thinking worriedly of my own still youthful eyesight.

  “Well, my dear, it is just aging really. It’s the lens in your eye. It gets less elastic as you get older, so it isn’t as flexible any more. This means that when you look at something close to you and your eyes need to refocus, your eye muscles aren’t able to bend the lens so well anymore and everything becomes blurred. It also leads to eyestrain—which can lead to headaches.” He turned to Dora. “That would explain why you have been getting headaches, especially after a day of struggling to read recipe instructions and numbers.”

  “Yes, even the dials on the oven,” I said. “That would explain why things end up overcooked and burnt, because you set it at the wrong temperature without realising.”

  Dr Foster patted Dora’s hand in an avuncular fashion. “My dear, you need to go and see an optician and get yourself some prescription reading glasses. And then you’ll be fine. There is no shame in that—we all need a little help sometimes and it will make all the difference.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Dora grudgingly.

  “There’s a good optician in Oxford,” I offered. “My mother goes there. I can help you make an appointment, if you like.”

  Dr Foster beamed. “Good, good… Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up and it was nothing serious. I knew it wouldn’t be—when you’ve been a doctor for as many years as I have, not much gets past you.”

  I caught the intern’s eye and we exchanged a surreptitious grin.

  “Yes,” Dora agreed with some relief. The colour had come back into her face. “I had been worrying that it might be something awful,” she confessed. “Well, you know, with all the things that have been happening recently and people being struck down suddenly, like that lady at the village fête—”

  “Ah, yes, poor Dame Eccleston…” Dr Foster tutted, shaking his head. “That was really very unfortunate. Of course, I did warn her family—her daughter, Mary, and even Mr Perkins when he was asking me about her heart condition—”

  “Mr Perkins?” I sat up straighter. “Edwin Perkins? He was asking about Dame Eccleston’s health?”

  “Yes, he is an old friend of the family,” said Dr Foster. “A most conscientious man. He was very concerned about her—and quite rightly too. He came to me one day and spoke to me in confidence, asking me about Dame Eccleston’s prognosis.”

  “What did you tell him?” I asked eagerly.

  “Well, I told him the truth, of course. That she had a heart condition which—combined with her weight and diet—put her at potentially high risk for a heart attack or stroke at any time. However, I did assure him that it wasn’t definite; with the right management and care, Dame Eccleston could have lived for many more years to come.”

  “It was nice of Mr Perkins to be so concerned.”

  “Yes, yes, very commendable of him. But I suppose as an old friend of the family, he felt a certain responsibility, now that Sir Henry has passed away. He even wanted to make sure that she was on the right medication. Of course, I assured him that that was the case.”

  “Mr Perkins was asking about Dame Eccleston’s medication? That’s very… conscientious of him,” I said carefully. “Was he worried that she might take an overdose or something?”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Dr Foster, furrowing his brow. “That is exactly what he did ask me about! He wanted to know what the dangers were of her taking an overdose of her angina medication. I assured him that as long as she followed instructions, it should be very safe. Now, if she had been on digoxin, that would have been a different story, of course. Very narrow therapeutic index, these digitalis compounds. One can overdose so easily and the effects can be fatal.”

  “Did you tell Mr Perkins that?”

  “Oh yes, certainly, but I assured him that Dame Eccleston was quite safe because she wasn’t on digoxin.”

  “When did he come and speak to you about this?” I asked.

  Dr Foster frowned. “Last week, I beli
eve.” He sighed and tutted again. “Who would have thought that only a few days after I spoke to him, the dear lady would collapse and die?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My phone rang just as Dora and I were leaving the GP clinic. I let her walk on while I took the call. It was Devlin.

  “Hi Gemma—I heard from Jo Ling that you’ve been speaking to her about Dame Eccleston.”

  “I wasn’t trying to go behind your back or anything,” I said hurriedly. “I just happened to bump into Jo by accident; I was… um… looking for Lincoln to ask him something and he happened to be with her so he introduced us. We got talking and—well, she agreed with me that the circumstances surrounding Dame Eccleston’s death could be suspicious.”

  “Yes, that’s what she told me too—and I think it might be worth doing a post-mortem after all.”

  “You… you do?” I said in surprise.

  “Well, the way Jo explained it to me—it does seem to be a reasonable next step. And I respect her expertise and judgement in such matters. If Jo feels it’s worth investigating further, I’m happy to sanction it.”

  But obviously not if I feel it’s worth investigating, I thought resentfully. Aloud, I said, “That’s great. So when will the post-mortem be? The funeral is on Friday so we don’t have much time—”

  “That’s all right, Jo’s got things sorted. She’s contacted all the people who need to give approval and sweet-talked them into agreeing with everything. I’ll have to put in the official report, of course, but she’s basically done all the legwork for me.” Devlin laughed. “When Jo decides she wants something, she makes it happen! And she’s volunteered to stay late tonight to do the post-mortem in her own time, which is bloody nice of her. It means I don’t have to worry about trying to squeeze it into the caseload tomorrow or delay the funeral.”

  “What about Mary Eccleston? Don’t you still need to let her know that you will be conducting an autopsy on her mother?”

  “Yes, Jo said she would take care of that too.”

  Was there anything that Jo Ling couldn’t take care of? I supressed the dour thought and reminded myself that I should be grateful. I was getting what I wanted.

  “That all sounds fantastic. Good old Jo. So when will she have the results?”

  “The preliminary report should be ready tomorrow morning. And in fact, I think I might join her for the post-mortem this evening. You don’t mind, do you?” said Devlin. “I’ll be late getting back—but if it is murder, then I think it’s important that I’m there. It’ll be helpful to hear Jo’s first impressions. She’s got a very astute way of looking at things.”

  I tried to ignore that sharp niggle of jealousy. “Um… yeah, sure. So I guess I’ll see you when I see you…”

  I hung up and stared at the screen. I should have been glad, I knew, that progress was being made on the case at last. The post-mortem was the single most important thing—it would prove that Dame Eccleston had been murdered and probably give us clues as to how. I should have been grateful to Jo for pulling all the strings needed to make this happen.

  All the same, I couldn’t help a faint feeling of resentment at the easy way she had achieved everything I had been struggling to do in the last few days. Devlin had even scoffed at the whole murder theory until Jo suggested it. Why should he respect her judgement so much more than mine?

  ***

  The whole episode left me in a pretty grumpy mood, and I was unexpectedly pleased when I remembered that I was supposed to have dinner with my parents that evening. It would be better than going home by myself to sit in Devlin’s empty house and brood. Even my mother at her most exasperating would still be a welcome distraction.

  I arrived at my parents’ elegant townhouse in North Oxford to find the comforting smells of an old-fashioned roast permeating the air and the familiar sight of my father at the head of the table, which was beautifully laid as usual with linen tablecloth, sparkling glassware, and gleaming cutlery and crockery. My mother was just wheeling her little serving trolley into the dining room, ready to serve the first course of soup.

  “Hi Dad,” I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before sliding into my usual seat.

  He nodded and smiled absent-mindedly at me. “Hello, dear. How nice to see you. Is the tearoom going well? And how are you settling in at Devlin’s place?”

  A warm feeling flooded through me. The questions might have been different but his gentle, interested manner was the same as when I had sat down at the table twenty years ago, ten years ago… and he had asked me about school, about university… Meanwhile, my mother hovered on my other side, asking if I had washed my hands and saying my shirt collar needed proper ironing. I smiled to myself, for once not minding her fussing. It’s nice to be independent, I thought, but sometimes, it’s really nice to come back to the nest too.

  My mother seemed to be bursting to tell me something all through dinner and as soon as dessert had been eaten and my father was comfortably settled in the sitting room with a cup of tea, she hustled me into the kitchen and said dramatically:

  “Darling, I think I have found A Clue!”

  “A clue to what, Mother?”

  “To Dame Eccleston’s murder, of course!” she said. “I’ve talked it over with Mabel and the others, and they all agree that it is something of Vital Importance.”

  “What is it?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.

  “Well, you know I went to the garden centre this morning? They were advertising a sale and I wanted to pick up some begonias… although it occurred to me that some water lilies would be a lovely addition to the water feature at the tearoom and I—”

  “What?” I said in alarm. “No, no, I don’t need any water lilies for the water feature, thank you!”

  It was bad enough having to live with that monstrosity without getting any more accessories for it! The hideous purple elephant water feature was my mother’s proudest purchase since her discovery of online shopping and it was the bane of my life. I was still trying to figure out a way to sell it on eBay without my mother finding out.

  “Oh, but darling, they have the most wonderful aquatic section there—gorgeous miniature water lilies, club rushes and water violets, and British natives like starwort—and they come already rooted in a mesh basket, with aquatic compost so you can just place them directly—”

  “No, Mother,” I said hastily. “I really don’t need any water lilies at the tearoom. Thank you. Anyway, what does this have to do with your clue?”

  “Oh yes, the clue—well, I was walking down the aisle for the bedding plants and I must say, darling, they had the most gorgeous fuchsias and dahlias too… I had been thinking of getting some Begonia Sunset Yellow for my hanging baskets but the display there made me wonder if Fuchsia Bella Rosella might be better… Of course, the Busy Lizzies always look fabulous too—”

  “Mother! What does this have to do with Dame Eccleston’s murder?”

  “Hmm? Oh, Dame Eccleston… yes, well, when I arrived, I couldn’t remember the exact deal I had seen in that newspaper supplement so I picked up a copy from the pile by the front door to refresh my memory. And that’s when I noticed it!”

  “Noticed what?”

  “My fingers were stained the most horrible blue!”

  “And?” I looked at her in puzzlement.

  “Well, I remembered the last time my fingers had got so horribly stained, with exactly that shade of blue…” She paused dramatically. “When I was looking at the anonymous note!”

  I frowned. “The note that Mary Eccleston showed us?”

  My mother nodded. “Yes, I found the most dreadful stains on my cream skirt that day and I couldn’t understand where they had come from. Horrible, ugly blue streaks… and then I realised that it was on my fingers as well. I hadn’t noticed at the time but I must have got it on my hands when we were looking at that note. You see, the letters that were cut out to form the words in the note—I think they were cut out from a copy of the garden centr
e supplement.”

  “Yes, you could be right,” I said, suddenly interested. I remembered that morning when I had sat with my mother at breakfast and she had first pulled the garden centre supplement out of the newspaper. She had complained then about the cheap paper and poor ink quality. And I remembered now that I had noticed my own fingers being stained after that visit to Eccleston House, although I hadn’t paid it much attention at the time.

  “And that means the person who sent the anonymous note to Dame Eccleston—who might have been her murderer—” my mother added breathlessly, “—is probably someone who shops at the garden centre.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t narrow the field that much. I mean, people go to that garden centre from all around—and if the supplement had been inserted into local newspapers and then distributed all over the county, anyone in Oxfordshire could have had access to copies.”

  My mother looked crestfallen at my lack of enthusiasm for her “important clue” and I felt slightly bad.

  “It’s still a good finding, Mother,” I said encouragingly. “Taken together with some other things, it might be very valuable. Do you know if Mary has reported the note to the police yet?”

  “I believe she hasn’t decided yet.”

  “She really should show it to them,” I said, with a frustrated sigh.

  “Yes, that’s what Audrey says too. She is really very worried about this whole thing, you know, and she thinks it’s wonderful that Mabel and I have taken the investigation into our own hands, since the police aren’t doing anything about finding Clare Eccleston’s murderer.”

  “Well, they are doing something about it now,” I said and I told my mother about the post-mortem that was happening that evening. “This will confirm whether Dame Eccleston died of natural causes and, if not, what the cause of death was. And then the CID can start an investigation.”

  “Well, I’m glad the police are finally taking this seriously!” said my mother with some asperity. “And I am sure that when the autopsy is done, they will discover that Dame Eccleston was horribly poisoned.”