English Tea Murder

by Leslie Meier

  The inspector was interviewing Rachel, the last member of the group, when a sharp snap indicated the medical examiner had finished her examination and was removing her gloves. She stood in the rear of the cabin, not far from Lucy, and the coroner went over to her.

  “What have you got?” he asked.

  “I was only able to do a superficial exam, but my observations are consistent with anaphylactic shock.”

  Lucy remembered Dr.Cope using the phrase when he examined Temple.

  “That accords with the witnesses’ reports,” said the coroner.

  “Of course, I’ll know more when I get him back to the morgue.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “It is customary.”

  “That’s not what I asked you,” snapped the coroner. “Do you have any reason to think it wasn’t anaphylactic shock?”

  The woman spoke slowly. “Uh, no.”

  “Well, then I guess we can save the rate payers some money.”

  “Whatever you say.” She proceeded through the cabin, stripping off the overall as she went and shaking her head.

  The inspector was now standing at the front of the cabin, addressing the group. “Thank you all for your cooperation. You’re free to go, and I hope there will be no further unpleasantness to spoil your visit to the UK.”

  They were starting to stand up when a rosy-cheeked man with slicked back hair suddenly appeared. “I’m Reg Wilson from British Airways, and I, too, want to thank you for your cooperation. Furthermore, I have arranged transport for your group to your hotel. Now, if you will gather up your things, I will escort you to immigration and on to the baggage area.”

  Pam was bouncing on the balls of her feet, itching to go. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she said.

  Lucy smiled, resolving not to let Temple’s death ruin her vacation. After all, she hadn’t really known the man. And she was finally here in England. “Tallyho,” she said.

  Chapter Three

  The group was quiet as the minibus crept along in heavy traffic on the M4, a highway Lucy recognized from those BBC mystery dramas she loved to watch. It was a lot like the Maine Turnpike, except all the cars were driving on the wrong side of the road. Lucy peered out the window at the passing scenery, fascinated by everything she saw. The houses were subtly different from houses in America, she thought. They were mostly built of brick, instead of the shingles or clapboard used in Maine, and they were tightly packed together in rows with tiny, fenced backyards instead of the spacious lawns she was used to. They were passing an old brewery that seemed oddly familiar—had it been a set in a costume drama?—and then the highway ended and they were on a London street, passing shops and museums and more row houses. These were taller and more imposing than the ones they’d seen from the highway and didn’t have front yards. Some had flower boxes at the windows or a plant in a tub set on the front steps. The street widened, and there was the giant flickering TV screen at Piccadilly Circus. They continued weaving through narrow streets, past theaters and restaurants, until they suddenly broke into a square with a leafy green park in the center. A few more turns through streets that were now arranged in a series of neat squares and the bus stopped in front of yet another tall brick row house. The gilded letters in the transom above the shiny black front door announced they had arrived at the Desmond Hotel.

  “What happens now?” asked Tom Smith, as if only now realizing the group had lost its leader. “Who’s in charge?”

  “I’ll fill in for George, for the time being,” said Pam, rising and moving to the front of the bus. “I work at the college part-time, so I know the president. I’ll call her and explain the situation.” She checked her watch. “It’s eleven here. That means it’s seven in the U.S. That’s awfully early for a Saturday morning. I’ll wait a bit—I should have some information for you by dinnertime.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” asked Laura, looking a bit lost.

  “For the time being, I guess we’re all on our own,” said Pam. “We might as well get settled here at the hotel. I’m sure the hotel staff can suggest some things to do. After all, this is London.” She smiled at the bus driver. “You can start unloading the luggage, and I’ll go in and see about checking in.”

  The bus driver had just pulled the last bag from the luggage compartment when Pam reappeared with a piece of paper and a handful of keys. “We’re all set. George took very good care of us,” she announced, standing on the steps in front of the hotel. “Barfields, you’re in room seven,” she said, handing over two keys. “The larger one is for the outer door, the smaller for your room.”

  The bus drove off and the group on the sidewalk gradually dispersed as Pam distributed the keys until only the four friends remained. “Here you go,” she said, handing a set of keys to Sue. “You and Lucy are in room twenty-seven and Rachel and I are in twenty-six. I think that means we have a bit of a climb.”

  Once inside, Lucy found herself in a small hall with a steep flight of carpeted stairs directly opposite the front door. The entry was homelike with a small console table holding a lamp, guestbook, and vase of fresh flowers. A narrow hallway ran alongside the stairs, ending in a small office, where a middle-aged man was talking on the telephone in a Cockney accent. Following Sue, Lucy began climbing, dragging her suitcase behind her up four flights of stairs until they reached the top floor and their rooms.

  Room 27 was small, but it had two large windows overlooking the street, two twin beds with white coverlets, and a very tiny bathroom with a shower. It was also very hot, so Lucy headed straight for one of the windows, which was sealed with an inner storm panel. She’d never seen anything like it before, but it opened easily and soon a cool breeze was lifting the white net panels that hung behind the wildly flowered drapes.

  Sue emerged from the bathroom. “Good thing we’re both slender,” she said. “Otherwise we couldn’t fit between the sink and shower to get to the toilet.”

  Lucy poked her head inside the bathroom and discovered Sue wasn’t exaggerating. “It’s a tight squeeze but very clean.”

  “And we each get a whole towel to ourselves,” said Sue, pointing out the neatly folded bath towels resting on the foot of each bed. Extremely small, thin towels, judging from their flatness.

  “And we share the soap.” Lucy was holding up the tiny pink rectangle she’d found on the tiny white sink.

  “It’s not exactly the Four Seasons,” said Sue.

  “It’s not even a Holiday Inn,” said Lucy, sitting on the end of a bed.

  “Well, sweetie, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Shopping, that is. And since it’s Saturday, we can go to Portobello Market!”

  “But I want to take a nap,” said Lucy, falling backward onto the bed.

  “Worst thing you can do. Come on, up you go! We’re in London! You can sleep tonight.”

  Slowly, very slowly, Lucy dragged herself to her feet. From the street outside, she could hear the roar of traffic, the voices of passersby. It was true. She wasn’t in quiet little Tinker’s Cove anymore.

  Downstairs, they met Pam and Rachel. In response to Pam’s inquiry, the proprietor, a short and stocky fellow in a worn olive-green sweater vest, gave them directions to Portobello Market. “Just walk up the street to the Euston Square tube station, take the Circle Line to Notting Hill Gate, and follow the Pembridge Road to Portobello Road. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’m so excited,” declared Sue as they headed up Gower Street. “I’m so glad you’re not going to miss Portobello.”

  “What is it exactly?” asked Pam.

  “A giant street fair. There’s antiques and junk and all sorts of stuff. Kind of like a giant flea market.”

  Rachel was consulting her guidebook as they walked along. “It says here you shouldn’t be afraid to bargain. The dealers expect to come down at least ten percent.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place,” said Lucy as they descended the stairs to the Euston Square st
ation.

  There they gathered in front of the machines that sold tickets and tried to figure out the system for payment.

  “In Boston you have to buy a CharlieCard,” said Pam, who often returned to her hometown to visit her mother.

  “This Oyster card is new—they didn’t have it last time I was here,” said Sue.

  Looking around, they found a cashier sitting in a booth behind a thick Plexiglas window who sold them the cards, collecting twenty-three pounds from each of them.

  “Seems expensive,” complained Lucy.

  “No, no,” said Sue, repeatedly tapping the card on the yellow disk that was supposed to operate the entry gate, but to no effect. “The Tube is fantastic, you’ll see. It will take us everywhere.”

  “If we can get in,” said Rachel.

  “May I?” A tall gentleman togged out in a suit and tie took the card from Sue. “You just touch the back of the card to the disk, like so,” he said, demonstrating. The gates opened.

  A train could be heard arriving at the platform below, so they hurriedly thanked him and dashed for the stairs—a very long flight of stairs. “It’s hopeless. We’ll have to wait for the next one,” said Pam in a resigned tone. But when they reached the platform, an illuminated sign informed them that the next train would arrive in two minutes. “Could that possibly be right?” asked Pam, pointing at the sign.

  When the train pulled in, exactly on schedule, Rachel was impressed. “This is amazing,” she said.

  The train ground to a halt, the doors slid open, and a mellifluous female voice reminded them to “Mind the gap” as they boarded. They were seating themselves on upholstered benches and noting the clean carriage when the voice continued. “This is a Circle Line train. The next stop will be Great Portland Street.”

  Stunned by British efficiency, they rode in silence to Notting Hill Gate, where they were once again urged to mind the gap.

  “Why can’t we have trains that run on schedule in America?” asked Rachel as they emerged from the dim station into the sunny street.

  “And actually let you know where you’re going in clearly understood announcements. The last time I was in Boston, I got the last train of the evening, which I thought was lucky, but unfortunately it didn’t go where I thought. I ended up at the end of the line on some deserted street trying to get a taxi at one in the morning.” Pam’s expression was dark. “Not much fun at all.”

  They were walking past neat white row houses with tiny front gardens behind black-painted iron railings in what seemed to be a very nice neighborhood. Lucy wondered what it would be like to live in one of these houses.

  “Up and down stairs all day,” said Sue, reading her mind.

  It was true, she realized. The houses seemed to be one room wide but were three or four stories tall. You’d get plenty of exercise just getting out of the house in the morning, especially if you forgot something in an upstairs bedroom.

  When they turned the corner onto Portobello Road, they were confronted by a colorful riot of activity. The narrow street was packed with people who jostled their way along the sidewalks and squeezed between the shops and the temporary stalls that filled the street. Most of the shops sold antiques, but there were also restaurants and clothing boutiques, even a Tesco supermarket. The stallholders sold everything from crafts and cheap imports to all sorts of fruits and vegetables, baked goods, meats, and even fish. One enterprising man had set up three enormous paella pans and was browning chicken pieces in sizzling oil; on the ground beneath the huge braziers, plastic bins full of shellfish were ready to hand. The air was full of scents: cooking chicken, fish, fragrant flowers, incense. Suddenly, Lucy felt quite dizzy and stumbled against a T-shirt stall.

  “Whoa, there,” exclaimed Sue, reaching out to steady her.

  Rachel took one look at Lucy’s white face and made an executive decision. “We need lunch.”

  Fortunately there was a nearby café, and they took an outside table. Pam kept Lucy company, basking in the warm March sunshine, while Rachel and Sue placed orders for tea and sandwiches.

  “I feel so foolish,” said Lucy, who was still a bit dizzy.

  “Don’t be silly.” Pam sounded tired. “We’ve all had a terrible shock, but you were right next to George. You saw the whole thing. It’s no wonder you’re a bit fragile.”

  “It’s probably just low blood sugar.” Lucy felt a surge of sympathy for Pam, who had assumed responsibility for the group. “Were you able to reach the college president?”

  “My cell phone doesn’t work here, so I sent an e-mail from the hotel—they have a computer for guests.”

  “You shouldn’t feel as if you have to take charge. We’re all adults. . . .” Lucy remembered the four students: Caroline, Will, Autumn, and Jennifer. “Well, almost adults.”

  “I still can’t believe it happened.” Pam looked up as Rachel and Sue arrived with their food, distributing ploughman’s lunches and cardboard cups of tea. “Poor George.”

  “What was he like?” asked Lucy, taking a sip of tea. She wasn’t quite ready for the sandwich, which consisted of cheese, pickle, and lettuce on whole wheat bread.

  “I only knew him from my yoga class,” said Pam, pausing to chew. “He was very flexible, considering his age.”

  “Men aren’t usually flexible,” said Lucy, picturing Bill’s struggle to touch his toes.

  “George had a lovely downward dog, and his cobra was amazing.”

  “How old was he?” Sue took a tiny bite of her sandwich.

  “Not old enough to die. Fifties maybe?” said Rachel. “This bread is very good.”

  “That’s about right.” Pam nodded. “This whole sandwich is excellent.”

  Encouraged, Lucy took a bite and experienced a revelation. “It’s real cheddar,” she declared. “And the bread is so wholesome-tasting. It’s really good, and I always heard English food is bad.”

  “So was he a full professor?” asked Sue. Her son-in-law Geoff had recently landed a position as an assistant professor at New York University.

  “No. He was only an adjunct,” said Pam. “Paid by the course, no benefits or anything.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Pam crumpled up the cellophane sandwich wrap. “You know how it is—a lot of liberal arts colleges are struggling financially these days. Winchester has a lot of adjuncts, but I did hear something about an opening in the English Department. Professor Crighton is due to retire, so maybe George would have gotten his job. He always scored really high on the student evaluations, and he was devoted to Winchester. He put in all sorts of extra time. He was even published.” She stood up. “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to spend all day sitting here. That stall with the scarves is calling my name.”

  Rachel turned her big brown eyes to Lucy. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better. Let’s go shopping.”

  Pam was willing to pay the ten pounds the vendor was asking for three scarves, but Sue intervened and haggled until he agreed to accept eight pounds. Lucy ventured inside some of the antique shops and found they extended far from the street front, winding through adjacent buildings in a higgledy-piggledy fashion, housing numerous dealers. She fell in love with a round breadboard that the seller assured her was a good value at thirty-five pounds. The woman had a number of them, ranging in price from ten to nearly one hundred pounds, so Lucy figured she could trust her expertise and paid the asking price.

  Rachel had to be dragged away from the bread stall, where she insisted on buying four hot cross buns, and they all gathered in Tesco to buy the shampoo and body wash the hotel didn’t supply. Sue lingered at the newsstand, stocking up on English magazines, while Lucy picked up a couple of tabloid newspapers. By then it was late afternoon and the market was winding down as stallholders began packing up their wares.

  Sue glanced at her watch and yawned, setting off a little chain reaction among her friends. “I know. We should have afternoon tea and then head back to the hotel
for an early night.”

  “I’ve always wanted to have high tea,” enthused Pam.

  “No, not high tea.” Sue nodded wisely. “High tea is beans on toast, a working-class supper. What we want is afternoon tea with scones and cake and little sandwiches and a silver teapot.”

  Lucy was skeptical. “I don’t think we’ll find any establishments like that around here. These places all seem to use paper cups.” She paused, remembering the many British mysteries she’d borrowed from the library, all aged and well thumbed by readers. “There’s a chain called Lyons, or used to be.”

  Sue was thoughtful. “Maybe closer to the hotel,” she said. But when they retraced their route back to the hotel and emerged, panting with exhaustion from the climb out of the Euston Square station, there seemed to be a surprising lack of tearooms. No restaurants at all, in fact, except for a dingy-looking Indian place. Coming to the end of their street, Sue admitted defeat. “How about some curry?” she asked.

  Waking at two in the morning, Lucy tiptoed into the tiny bathroom and dug in her toiletries bag for the roll of antacid tablets she’d brought. She’d enjoyed the spicy Indian food, but now she had a terrible case of heartburn. She crunched a couple of the tablets while she peed, had a drink of water, and went back to bed, hoping she’d look better in the morning than she did now. Her reflection in the mirror over the sink wasn’t encouraging; she had dark circles under her eyes, and she was certain she’d sprouted some new wrinkles.

  Back in bed, she yawned and settled herself for sleep, but sleep didn’t come. She was tired enough; there was no doubt about that. Her legs ached; her arms felt heavy. Every cell in her body seemed to be crying out for rest. All except her brain cells, which were annoyingly active and returned again and again to Temple’s death, producing an image of his blanket-covered body whenever she closed her eyes.