by Leslie Meier
“Yeah, Lucy, what were you two doing in Brighton?” asked Pam.
They were all looking at her, and Lucy felt she had to defend herself. “Nothing. We didn’t do anything. We had a drink, that was all.” She smoothed her paper napkin. “He’s barking up the wrong tree if he’s after me. I’m another Clementine Churchill, loyal to a fault.”
“Just as long as you don’t start looking like her,” muttered Sue, sending them all into gales of laughter.
Chapter Fourteen
The group was scheduled to see The Mousetrap on Thursday night, but the choice didn’t sit well with Rachel.
“Why do we have to see an old chestnut like that?” she asked as the four friends waited in the lounge for the rest of the group. “London’s known for wonderful, cutting-edge theater and we’re stuck with this old thing.”
“I agree,” said Quentin, rising from his seat at the computer and joining them. “But George apparently felt that no trip to London was complete without seeing it. And it’s certainly a safe choice with nothing to offend anyone.”
He gave a slight tilt of his head to the doorway, where the Smith family had just appeared. Tom and Ann were on either side of Caroline, whose arm was in a blue sling. She seemed more stolid and robotic than ever. Lucy figured her glassy eyes and listlessness were due to medication, but apart from that and the broken arm, she seemed none the worse for her dunking.
There were plenty of free seats in the lounge, but only the saggy old couch provided seating for three. Lucy was wondering why Tom Smith was staring at her in that pointed manner and, receiving a sharp jab in the ribs from Rachel, realized he wanted them to give up their seats.
Lucy thought it was ridiculous, but she got up and moved to an equally saggy armchair on the opposite side of the room. Sue, she saw, was rolling her eyes at the maneuver.
Rachel, true to her nature, was full of sympathy. “It’s great to have you back with the group,” she told Caroline. “How are you feeling?”
Caroline was slow to answer. “Okay, I guess.”
Rachel received this news with a delighted smile. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show.”
Her efforts to engage Caroline in conversation were not received well by her parents, however. Tom was glaring at her beneath bristly eyebrows, and Ann was nervously stroking Caroline’s hand, as if this harmless bit of small talk might trigger an emotional breakdown.
Ann’s anxiety increased when Will and his mother arrived; she practically leaped out of her seat when Will demanded to know if they’d have to stand for “God Save the Queen.”
“I think that stopped when World War II ended,” said Quentin. “But the theaters do have bars. That hasn’t changed.”
“Really,” sighed Laura. “Must they have alcohol available at every event?”
“I thought England would be stuffy,” said Autumn, “but it’s great. They drink, they smoke, and they swear.”
Quentin’s face lit up. “So the UK’s okay with you?”
“It’s bloody marvelous,” declared Autumn, practically sending the Smiths into paroxysms of propriety. Tom humphed and Ann straightened her back and pursed her lips in disapproval.
Dr. Cope, however, chuckled as he settled himself in the last available chair. “I was here in the sixties,” he said as Jennifer perched on the arm of his chair. “Studying, you know. I tell you, it was difficult to keep my mind on the intricacies of the endocrine system with all those birds popping about in miniskirts. It was a great time to be in London.”
“Were you a mod or a rocker?” asked Sue with a naughty grin.
Dr. Cope sighed. “Neither, I’m afraid. I was a grind.”
“You made the right choice,” said Quentin, assuming a professorial air. “The mods and rockers are gone but the endocrine system is eternal.” He stood up. “I think we’re all here, so we can get this show on the road—pun intended! We can walk together over to the Goodge Street station. It’s just two stops to Leicester Square.”
“I’ve arranged for a taxi,” said Tom with a nod to his daughter.
Ann was quick to defend her daughter. “It’s not anything to do with Caroline,” she declared. “I don’t like the noise and the smell of the Underground.”
“Of course,” said Quentin diplomatically. “We’ll see you at the theater, then.”
When they emerged from the theater into the narrow neon-lit street, which was slick from an evening shower, Sue insisted they stop at a nearby pub for a drink. “Otherwise, I’m sure I couldn’t be trusted not to reveal the surprise ending of the play.”
She was referring to the fact that everyone in the audience had been asked not to reveal the killer’s identity, thereby spoiling the surprise for future audiences.
“After twenty-three thousand performances, I suspect the secret is out,” said Rachel.
“Were you surprised, Lucy?” asked Pam. “You’re the reporter, after all. Did you suspect the, well”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“the you-know-who wasn’t what he seemed to be?”
The three turned to look at her and Lucy blushed. “That play was written by a master—there were a lot of red herrings.”
“She didn’t guess!” crowed Sue.
Lucy turned the tables on her friend. “Did you?”
Sue didn’t answer; she was busy pushing her way into the crowded pub.
The crowd was mostly in the front, near the bar; they discovered plenty of free tables in the rear. They were gathered around one, sipping white wine and nibbling assorted flavors of crisps, when they spotted Dr. Cope standing awkwardly with a pint of beer in his hand. Pam waved him over and he joined them, followed by his granddaughter Jennifer and Will Barfield.
“Where’s your mother?” Lucy blurted it out without thinking.
“Laura was tired and went back to the hotel with the Smiths,” said Dr. Cope.
Will didn’t seem to be missing his mother at all. He was busy whispering in Jennifer’s ear and had draped his arm along the top of the banquette where it rested behind her. Dr. Cope noticed, his face hardening in displeasure, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to Rachel. “Did you enjoy the play?”
“I didn’t expect to, but I did,” she said. “I guess there’s a reason why it’s lasted all these years.”
“You can’t argue with success,” declared Quentin, arriving with Autumn and pulling up chairs for both of them. “Do you know why it’s called The Mousetrap?”
Nobody did.
Quentin wasn’t shy about telling them. “It’s based on a short story called ‘Three Blind Mice,’ which doesn’t quite have the snap of The Mousetrap. Pun intended!”
At this, Autumn groaned, but Quentin continued. “The Mousetrap is the name of the play in Hamlet, which is designed “to catch the conscience of the king.”
“From what I’ve seen, none of these kings, or the queens either, had much in the way of consciences,” said Lucy, draining her glass.
“It’s a funny thing about consciences,” said Dr. Cope. “Some people have them and some seem not to have them at all. They just carry on without a care, conveniently ignoring the damage they’ve done.”
Lucy suspected he was directing this to Will, issuing a warning to be careful of Jennifer’s emotions. If so, he had missed his target—Will’s arm was now draped across the girl’s shoulders.
Pam was trying a prawn-flavored crisp. “But Maureen Lynn—the abuser in the play—she went to prison. She paid for her crime. I don’t see why you-know-who had to kill her.”
“Some crimes can’t be forgiven,” said Dr. Cope.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” insisted Pam. “And you-know-who wrecked his own life—now he’ll get sent to jail.”
“Or even hanged,” said Quentin. “The death penalty was in force when the play was written.”
“I expect he felt so strongly about taking his revenge that he was willing to face the consequences,” said Dr. Cope, placidly twirling his empty
glass.
“My husband, Bob, he’s a lawyer,” said Rachel. “Bob says the law really has nothing to do with moral truth. It’s a system. It’s better than nothing, but it doesn’t allow for every situation. Sometimes there are mitigating circumstances, like abused women who kill their abusers, situations like that.”
“That’s exactly the point Agatha Christie makes in Murder on the Orient Express,” said Pam. “I love that book, because justice—real justice—triumphs in the end. Poirot solves the case but decides the twelve have acted as a jury. The dead man deserved what he got, and Poirot decides they shouldn’t be punished.”
Dr. Cope had turned rather pale, and Lucy turned to see Will was nuzzling Jennifer’s neck.
But it was Autumn who spoke up, her voice charged with emotion. “Anything can happen in books—authors make things end the way they want.” Her voice dropped. “Something like that could never happen in real life.”
“Point taken,” said Quentin, popping up. “I need to get drinks for myself and Autumn. Can I get you all another round?”
No one had any objection and he soon returned carrying a tray loaded with drinks. Conversation flowed as everyone had a good time, freed from Laura’s sense of propriety and the Smiths’ dampening influence. Lucy found her thoughts wandering, recalling Christie’s intricate plot in which twelve seemingly unrelated travelers come together on the Orient Express to execute a kidnapper.
Her mind was awhirl as she stared into her glass, watching how the surface of the wine reflected the light from the wall sconce behind her, refracting differently as she moved the goblet. Was it the same with this tour? Had this odd group of travelers come together to exact revenge by killing George Temple?
It was possible, she realized, if they’d known about his allergies. Thinking back to the events at the airport, she could see a clever set of circumstances that could have been designed to trigger and exacerbate an attack. First there was the trouble at security, when officers found something in Temple’s pocket that required them to question him, perhaps even search him. Something that he claimed he hadn’t known about. What was it?
When he returned to the group at the gate, he was already exhibiting symptoms. Ann Smith had rushed to his aid as he sat, struggling to catch his breath, by wrapping her pashmina around him. But this effort to soothe and relax Temple had backfired; his breathing only got worse.
That situation had accelerated when Laura Barfield frantically announced her son Will was missing, just as the boarding process began. She was practically hysterical, pleading with Temple to make the airline delay the flight, something that he had no power to do. Her panic was contagious; everyone in the group was upset by the time Will arrived, nonchalantly explaining he’d been in the bookshop and had lost track of the time.
And then, of course, there was the business with Jennifer and Autumn that Lucy had witnessed. It could have been a series of accidents—that’s what it had seemed like at the time—but what if the girls had behaved deliberately? What if they’d known about Temple’s peanut allergy and made sure to shake the trail mix, releasing the peanut dust into the air? And what if Autumn had purposely knocked the inhaler out of his hand?
But there Lucy felt she’d gone too far. These two young girls had their own problems; it hardly seemed likely they would plot to kill a respected teacher. Why would they do such a thing? And if this was indeed some sort of macabre plot, Dr. Cope would have had to be involved, and Lucy had seen him use the EpiPen with her own eyes. And furthermore, she’d seen his serious expression when he announced that Temple was dead. She was convinced the doctor was not one who took death lightly.
She looked across the table at Dr. Cope, noticing his usually severe expression had brightened with the appearance of two red patches on his cheeks. He was clearly enjoying himself—and the pub’s best bitter. He’d even forgotten to keep an eye on Jennifer, who was kissing Will.
Back at the hotel, Sue was brushing her teeth and Lucy was turning down her bed when Pam knocked gently on their door. “Can I come in? I need a Band-Aid.” She held up her finger, which was wrapped in a wad of toilet paper.
“How did that happen?” Lucy was examining the cut.
“I dropped a bathroom glass and cut myself when I was picking up the pieces.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t bring any—I always have a couple in my purse.”
“No problem, I’ve got some.” Lucy pulled a ziplock bag out of her handbag and produced a little plastic first-aid kit. “I’ve even got antibiotic cream.”
Pam was dabbing at her finger with the toilet paper. The bleeding had slowed, and after a few dabs, Lucy was able to apply the ointment and stick on a Band-Aid.
“She’s a real Nurse Nancy.” Sue had popped out of the bathroom and was watching the operation with interest.
“More like Nancy Drew.” Pam was tossing the bloody bit of paper into the wastebasket. “Did you see her at the pub? That suspicious mind of hers was in overdrive.”
“We should never have allowed her to see a mystery. She really can’t handle them.” Sue sat on her bed. “Well, are you going to tell us or not?”
“It wasn’t The Mousetrap,” said Lucy. “I’m thinking more of Murder on the Orient Express.”
Pam and Sue exchanged glances. “You think they—meaning everybody on the tour except us four—plotted together to kill George Temple?” demanded Sue.
“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard.” Pam was studying her finger. “Everybody at Winchester loved him.”
“I agree with Herr Doktor Professor Shtillings.” Sue had adopted a phony German accent. “It is crazy. She has these recurring episodes in which she sees murderers everywhere. It’s a form of paranoia.”
“Or maybe schizophrenia,” added Pam with a sharp nod.
“There is only one cure that I know of,” continued Sue.
“Und vat is dat?” Pam was enjoying herself.
“Shopping! She must go to Topshop, and the sooner the better.”
“I agree, Herr Doctor.” Pam was yawning, heading for the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Wait a minute.” Lucy was tapping her chin. “In Murder on the Orient Express, and The Mousetrap, too, the murder, the act of retribution, takes place long after the original crime, right?”
“Oh, Doktor, it is vurse, far vurse, than I thought.” Pam was shaking her head.
“It’s the vurst!” exclaimed Sue, laughing hysterically. “It’s the bratvurst!”
Lucy was laughing, too. “Cut it out. I’m serious. The George Temple you knew at Winchester was a nice guy, but maybe he wasn’t always a nice guy. Maybe he has a past. Maybe he did something unforgivable. Dr. Cope was sort of talking like that, wasn’t he? About people not having consciences, not caring that they’d wrecked other people’s lives?”
“He was just speaking generally,” protested Sue. “Making small talk. We’d just seen a murder mystery.”
“I know,” admitted Lucy. “But I’ve got this feeling. I just can’t shake it.”
Pam held up a finger. “Dis is progress, Doktor. She admits she may be delusional.”
“It’s a first step,” agreed Sue.
“Okay, if I’m delusional, prove it,” challenged Lucy.
Pam sighed. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Ask Ted to do a bit of research. He’s the chief reporter at the Pennysaver. . . .”
“Editor and publisher to you,” said Pam.
“He loves reporting most of all,” said Lucy. “He’ll enjoy doing a little digging. It will keep him out of trouble until you get home.”
“Okay,” said Pam, “but in the meantime, you must agree to treatment.”
“If you insist,” agreed Lucy. “But I’m afraid I may have maxed out my credit cards.”
Chapter Fifteen
When Lucy awoke on Friday morning, she found Sue’s bed was empty. Reaching for her watch, she realized with a shock that it was close to nine o’clock. How h
ad this happened? She never slept this late. Folding back the covers and swinging her legs out of bed, she yawned and scratched her head, trying to remember the day’s itinerary. It came to her as she stood in the bathroom, studying her puffy face in the mirror over the sink: Windsor Castle. They were supposed to go to Windsor, and the bus was leaving at nine o’clock. Hurrying over to the window, she was just in time to see it pulling away from the curb and driving down the street.
She was throwing some clothes on, intending to find out what was going on, when Sue arrived with a cup of coffee for her. “I hope you don’t mind. I made an executive decision.”
Lucy took the cup. “What about Windsor?”
“It’s just another musty old castle,” said Sue with a shrug. “And you were sleeping so soundly, snoring away. . . .”
“I don’t snore.”
Sue cocked an eyebrow. “Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but you do. Just a little bit, now and then. It’s actually more of a ladylike little snuffle. Positively mouselike.”
Lucy took a swallow of coffee. “This mouse wanted to see Windsor Castle.”
“Mother knows best, dear. Trust me on this. Time is running out and we haven’t had time for any serious shopping.”
“What do you call Harrods? That was pretty serious shopping.”
Sue shook her head. “I happen to know that all you’ve bought are those sad little odds and ends from Portobello and a toy bear. What about the girls? Aren’t you going to get anything for them? And Bill? What about him? He deserves something for keeping the home fires burning and all that.”
“There are shops in Windsor,” protested Lucy.
“No, dear. We all talked it over and decided you definitely need a break from the group and your wicked suspicions. And some of us want a decent breakfast.”
That was the last straw. Lucy realized she’d missed breakfast. “No eggs and bacon?”
Sue patted her on the shoulder. “We’re going to go out and get some nice fruit and yogurt and get you back on the right track.” She spoke in a soothing voice, as one might to a fretful invalid. “And if you’re good, maybe a bit of wholemeal toast with jam.”