English Tea Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Hearing voices in the hallway, Lucy wrote a quick reply asking for more information, then glanced up as Quentin Rea entered the lounge accompanied by a tall young woman. She had the sort of looks that turned heads, not so much because her features were outstanding—her nose was a bit too big, her lips thin—but because she knew how to present herself. Her black tailored pantsuit not only fit her slender figure to perfection but it also set off her buttery, shoulder-length blond hair. If she was wearing makeup, it was so expertly applied that you couldn’t tell, apart from a dab of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara on her wide-set brown eyes. Remembering how tired she’d felt when she finally arrived at the hotel, Lucy wondered how this woman could look so remarkably fresh after spending the night on the red-eye from Boston.

  Turning her attention to the professor, Lucy decided he hadn’t aged well. He’d put on some weight in the years since she’d taken that course in Victorian literature, and his rumpled khaki pants and Harris Tweed jacket couldn’t stretch to cover the round belly that stuck out like a baby bump. The longish, streaked hair that Lucy had found so attractive all those years ago had darkened into a slatey gray and had thinned as well, leaving a circular, pink bald patch at his crown. Of course, everybody got older, everyone aged, thought Lucy. The unfortunate thing in Quentin’s case was that he hadn’t accepted the fact and was still sporting the same look he’d adopted straight out of grad school as a young assistant professor. It had been devastatingly effective back then, but it didn’t work now. He needed to buy pants with a larger waist; he needed a good haircut and a new pair of shoes. Long, bushy sideburns and loafers held together with duct tape looked ridiculous on a man approaching his fifties.

  “There’s nothing worse than preppy gone to seed,” said Sue, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

  Lucy laughed, closing out her e-mail account and pushing back her chair. Standing up, she caught Quentin’s eye.

  “Lucy Stone!”

  Lucy was chagrined to feel her cheeks warming. All that had been long ago and had mostly been in her imagination. “Meet my friends,” she said, quickly introducing Pam, Rachel, and Sue.

  “Terrific, terrific,” he murmured, glancing around the crowded lounge. “Is everyone here?”

  Lucy did a quick head count. The Smith family were seated together on a big sofa; Caroline, ever the well-behaved daughter, was in the middle between her watchful parents. Dr. Cope and Laura Barfield were standing by the window, and Laura’s son Will had taken Lucy’s seat at the computer. Autumn and Jennifer had squeezed together into an armchair where they were giggling and looking through some of the tourist brochures provided by the hotel.

  “We’re all here,” said Pam. “And we’re very glad you could come and take over for George.”

  “Not at all,” said Quentin. “I’m very happy to be here with you all, though of course I regret the circumstances that brought me here. This is Emma Temple,” he said, indicating his companion. “She has come to make arrangements to return her father’s body to the States.”

  If he’d announced he’d brought along an auditor from the Internal Revenue Service to inquire into their tax returns, he couldn’t have gotten a more awkward reaction. The room fell silent and eyes were averted until Pam stepped forward and grabbed Emma’s hand. “I think I speak for everyone when I say how very sorry we all are for your loss. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Emma, her glance passing to each of them, as a lawyer might assess a jury. “I don’t anticipate any problems. I’m an attorney, so I’m familiar with situations like this. I expect to wrap things up fairly quickly.”

  “Dealing with the death of a parent is always difficult . . .” began Rachel.

  Emma cleared her throat, eager to set the record straight. “My parents were divorced and I hadn’t seen my father for many years. I can’t pretend to be grief-stricken, but I do appreciate your concern.” She turned to Quentin. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get settled in my room and leave you all to your tour. I have some phone calls to make.”

  As Emma left the room, there seemed to be a general relaxation of tension. People were uncomfortable with death, Lucy reasoned, and it was awkward to confront grieving family members. Even worse, perhaps, when the family member wasn’t grieving.

  “Well, then. Onward and upward as my dear mother likes to say.” Quentin was ready to take charge. “I believe George made arrangements for an excursion to Hampton Court today. In fact, I noticed a minibus parked outside, and I spoke to the driver, who is waiting for us. So if you all want to get your things for the day, we can get this show on the road.”

  As always in London, the road was crowded and the minibus crawled through town. Lucy didn’t mind the slow pace, because it gave her an opportunity to get the lay of the land. Passing through busy Leicester Square, she spotted the TKTS booth where theater tickets were sold for half price, and passing Green Park, she noticed a sign pointing the way to Buckingham Palace. This was all useful information that she filed away for future reference.

  Sue was also taking notes. “That’s the Wolseley,” she said, pointing out a restaurant on Piccadilly. “Very fashionable.”

  “Looks expensive,” said Lucy, noticing the Ritz Hotel on the next corner and the well-dressed men in bespoke suits with slim briefcases striding along purposefully on the sidewalk.

  Sue had also noticed them. “Don’t you wish people in America dressed better? All anybody seems to wear anymore is jeans.”

  “Jeans are just fine with me,” said Lucy, looking down at her denim-clad legs, “and I’ve noticed plenty of people wearing them here in London, too.”

  “Only tourists,” sniffed Sue.

  Lucy laughed. “We’re tourists. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Even Jane Austen was a tourist,” said Quentin, joining the conversation. “It was quite the fashion in nineteenth-century England to tour the countryside and visit the stately houses. Elizabeth Bennett goes sightseeing in Pride and Prejudice. In fact, it’s the sight of Mr. Darcy’s impressive estate that prompts her to revise her previously unfavorable opinion of him and decide he’s marriage material.” He paused. “I think you will discover that Hampton Court is well worth a visit. It was built by Cardinal Wolsey and was the finest palace in England, a fact that didn’t sit well with Henry the Eighth. He complained that the cardinal’s home was far nicer than anything he had, compelling the cardinal to offer it to him. Henry didn’t hesitate to seize it. He wanted something that would impress his new lover, Anne Boleyn.” Quentin paused. “I guess we all know how that turned out.”

  “She was beheaded, wasn’t she?” said Autumn. “We saw the monument at the Tower of London.”

  Quentin nodded. “Henry soured on the relationship when she failed to produce a male heir.”

  “Typical!” snorted Autumn. “Like that was her fault.”

  “Nowadays we know it’s the father’s sperm that determines the sex of the child,” observed Dr. Cope. “They didn’t know that in the sixteenth century.”

  “Was that why she died?” Jennifer’s voice was low and her face pale. “Just because she didn’t have any sons?”

  “It was a bit more complicated than that. She was accused of treason and fornicating with her brother and just about anything her enemies could think of. But Henry had it done in true royal style.” Quentin spoke with relish, enjoying showing off his knowledge. “Instead of letting the usual executioner go at her with an ax, which sometimes took more than a few whacks, he hired the famous swordsman of Calais to do the deed in the French manner. One quick swing of the sword and the problem was solved.”

  “I hated the Tower,” whispered Jennifer. “It’s a horrible place. You can almost hear those poor souls screaming.”

  “I imagine more than a few got exactly what they deserved,” said Tom Smith.

  “And others were sacrificed to royal whims,” said Quentin. “At Hampto
n Court, they say, visitors sometimes encounter the ghost of Katherine Howard, still protesting her innocence.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Caroline, rousing from her usual lethargy and taking an interest.

  “She was Henry the Eighth’s fifth wife.” Quentin ticked them off on his fingers. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded . . .”

  “Oh, no, not another,” moaned Jennifer.

  “Afraid so. She not only failed to produce an heir but she was also judged unfaithful to the king.”

  Sue raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Seems a risky sort of thing to do with a husband like Henry.”

  “Who knows?” Quentin shrugged. “The court was full of rumors. It may not have been true. Unfortunately, Henry believed it, so it was ‘Off with her head!’ and this time there was no fancy French swordsman.”

  Jennifer was so pale Lucy was afraid she might pass out. “Tell us about the sixth wife,” she suggested. “She outlived Henry, didn’t she?”

  Quentin smiled. “Catherine Parr. She did indeed. As the rhyme goes, she survived. She married again after Henry’s death but unfortunately died of puerperal fever.”

  “A common occurrence in those days,” said Dr. Cope.

  “But don’t think Hampton Court is anything like the Tower—it’s a beautiful Tudor country estate that’s been enlarged by subsequent kings and queens. It’s situated on the Thames and has beautiful gardens, which I encourage you to explore. Because, it seems, we’ve arrived.”

  The driver swung the minibus into a drop-off area, and they disembarked, gathering in a small knot on the gravel pathway to wait while Quentin bought the tickets. Lucy found herself enjoying the fresh air and sunshine as she took in the splendid view. The gravel drive, which bisected a bright green lawn edged on one side by the meandering river, led to the quaintly towered and turreted structure of age-darkened red brick. It didn’t seem very large or impressive from this angle, but rather like a castle you might see pictured in an illustrated book of fairy tales. Rapunzel would not have looked out of place letting her hair down from one of the twin towers that flanked the central gate.

  When Quentin returned and distributed plans of the palace, she discovered it was a vast complex of buildings extending far beyond the Tudor façade and included a chapel, numerous enclosed courts, a Tudor kitchen, picture galleries, an orangery, halls for receiving state visitors, and once-private royal apartments.

  “I’m afraid we got off to a rather late start this morning, so we don’t have as much time as I’d like,” said Quentin after checking his watch. “I suggest we stick together for a quick tour of the interior and then go our separate ways to the garden, lunch, the maze, whatever you like. We must all meet back here at exactly this spot at three o’clock. And I mean three o’clock and not a minute later because our driver has warned us that traffic will most likely be heavy and we must get back to London before our minibus turns into a pumpkin on the stroke of five.”

  This was met with nods and bemused smiles as they began making their way to the entrance with Quentin leading the way. Once inside, he led them upstairs and down through vast halls with elaborately plastered ceilings and along dark and chilly bricked corridors to the vast, smoky kitchens where two meals a day for hundreds of members of the royal household had been cooked every day on open fires. Lucy found it all fascinating and hung on to every word, but after they’d viewed the Chapel Royal and entered the Georgian area of the palace, she began to lose interest. All those Williams and Georges confused her, and she found herself longing to get outside to explore the garden and find the Great Vine. She’d recently read about it in a gardening magazine and was eager to see the famous old survivor for herself.

  “These rooms were originally intended for Queen Mary the Second. She was coruler with her husband, William the Third, but they are better known to us as William and Mary, who the college is named after but were later used by Queen Caroline, George the Second’s wife . . .” Quentin was rambling on, absorbed by a subject that he alone found fascinating. Without the titillation of sexual misalliances and royal beheadings, the group was becoming restless, and when Lucy saw Autumn and Jennifer slip away, she tapped Sue on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “I want to see the Great Vine.”

  When the group turned a corner into a little room with original linenfold paneling, Lucy and Sue headed in the opposite direction. By following a few signs, they soon found themselves outside, standing in front of a classically proportioned Georgian façade that bore no resemblance at all to the Tudor side of the building. This part of the redbrick palace had white trim and even rows of large windows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a New England college campus. It could even be a high school or a town hall.

  “Whoa,” said Sue, putting on her sunglasses, “talk about a time warp.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Lucy, spotting a sign pointing to the Great Vine. “This way, come on. We can’t miss this. It’s hundreds of years old.”

  Sue was poring over the plan. “What exactly is it?”

  “A grapevine. It was planted three hundred years ago.”

  Sue’s eyebrows rose over her DKNY sunglasses. “So?”

  “That’s amazing. Just imagine. Three hundred years and it still produces grapes.”

  “Poor thing.” Sue was marching along the walkway. “They ought to let it retire.”

  “Nope, it’s like the queen. It has to carry on until it dies.” Lucy waved her arm. “Just look at these gardens. They’re beautiful.”

  As they walked along the side of the enormous palace, they could see various formal gardens laid out before them, many with lavishly planted beds packed with hyacinths and pansies, outlined by neatly clipped boxwood hedges.

  “Their spring is way ahead of ours,” said Lucy. “I haven’t even seen a crocus at home.”

  “We don’t really have spring in Maine,” observed Sue. “We go straight from winter to mud and then it’s summer and black flies.”

  Lucy had paused in front of an old-fashioned little greenhouse, surrounded by a patch of freshly turned earth. “This is it,” she exclaimed, her voice full of awe. “The Great Vine.”

  “I only see dirt,” said Sue.

  “They don’t plant anything here. The roots are beneath this soil, and they don’t want anything to compete with the vine. Come on.” She grabbed Sue’s hand and pulled her toward the door.

  Inside it was warm and humid, and the Great Vine was bare and leafless, its tendrils rising from a thick and knobby trunk and spreading beneath the greenhouse’s glass roof.

  Lucy exhaled slowly. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

  Sue was peering over her sunglasses, staring at the vine’s rough brown bark. “I don’t see it myself, but, then, I’m not much of a gardener. I suppose it’s quite nice when it has leaves and grapes.”

  Lucy was crestfallen. “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it,” said Sue, stifling a smile. “Now let’s find this famous maze.”

  The walk to the maze took them past spacious lawns filled with thousands of naturalized daffodils, all in bloom. “Now this is more like it,” said Sue. “I like a bit of color, and look at the way they all nod in the breeze. When I get home, I’m going to plant a whole lot of daffodils.”

  “You’ll have to wait till fall,” said Lucy.

  Sue was doubtful. “Really?”

  “Really. You plant them in the fall and they come up in the spring.”

  Sue chewed her lip. “I’ll probably forget by then.”

  “I’ll remind you.” Lucy had stopped before a wall of living green. “This is it. The maze. The entrance must be around the side.”

  “It’s bigger than I thought,” said Sue. “What if we get lost and can’t get out?”

  “I have an excellent sense of direction,” declared Lucy, stepping through the turnstile. “Follow me.”

  Once inside the maze, Lucy found she’d spoken too soon. The twists and turns of the paths s
oon confused her, and they came to several dead ends that required them to retrace their steps through the narrow alleys between the clipped hedge. The hedge was too tall to see over, but they could hear voices as other visitors laughed and called to each other. They recognized Autumn’s voice, calling, “This way, come this way,” and followed it to the center of the maze. But when they got there, they didn’t find Autumn, only Jennifer, who was wiping tears from her eyes with her hands.

  Lucy’s motherly instincts were aroused and she produced a tissue from her bag. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” The girl smiled wanly. “I had a little panic attack, but now that you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

  “Where’s Autumn?” Sue gestured at the enclosed space, empty except for the three of them. “I heard her voice.”

  “She was here but she ran off.” Jennifer’s face was an angry red, in marked contrast to her usual pallor.

  “Why did she do that?” asked Lucy, suspecting the girls had quarreled.

  Jennifer licked her lips nervously and shrugged her bony shoulders. “You know how she is. She thought it would be fun to frighten me. She knew I was afraid I couldn’t find my way out.”

  “That’s rather mean,” said Sue.

  Jennifer was quick to defend Autumn. “Oh, she didn’t mean anything by it.” She tucked the used tissue into her pocket. “What does happen if you can’t figure it out? Do they leave you here all night?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sue was leading the way. “I imagine they keep count. That’s probably what the turnstile is for.”

  “Oh.” Jennifer giggled nervously. “Now I feel foolish. Why didn’t I think of that?”