Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “I didn’t say that. It’s good practice to double check everything—get different witness accounts of the same events.”

  “But you do think it’s murder, right?”

  “The SOCO team have only just got here and the forensic pathologist is still examining the body. I’ve only had a quick chat with him so nothing can be confirmed until I speak to him again; in fact, he probably won’t be able to tell me anything for certain until he does the post-mortem.”

  “Aw, come on! He must have given some indication that there was foul play! Otherwise, why are you spending so much time interviewing everybody? Do you think Mabel Cooke and the Old Bi—I mean, her friends—are right? That the girl was poisoned?”

  Devlin’s expression was guarded. “We’re making no assumptions at this point. It’s still too early in the investigation.”

  Grrr.

  Devlin’s blue eyes twinkled suddenly in amusement at the expression on my face and he relented. “But yes, I do think it’s a suspicious death. I understand that she was having some kind of seizure—convulsions—before she died? Unless she has a history of epilepsy or some other medical condition which could bring on seizures, that could very well be a symptom of poisoning.” He looked at me keenly. “You were one of the ones who ran over to her—did you touch her?”

  I shook my head. “I tried, but she was thrashing around so much and I… I wasn’t sure what to do. Some of the others were trying to restrain her but I was afraid to hurt her. To be honest with you…” I said, shamefaced, “I was a bit paralysed.”

  Devlin’s voice softened. “It’s perfectly normal, Gemma. Unless you’ve been specifically trained for it, not many people will know what to do in a medical emergency like that.”

  I swallowed uncomfortably. “Yeah, but… well, you always wonder if there was something you could have done that might have made a difference…”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I think whatever caused the girl’s death—whatever was introduced into her system—was too powerful for anyone to have prevented the result.”

  “So you do believe what Mabel Cooke said about the poisoning!” I said.

  He gave me a dry look. “Mrs Cooke and her friends have an interesting theory, which probably bears more resemblance to an Agatha Christie novel than reality. When I pressed them, they admitted that they didn’t actually see the girl behind the bar put anything into the teacup. It was just their certainty that the girl could have done it and would have done it. But they don’t have any hard facts or proof. Having said that, we will take everything into account.”

  “In that case…” I hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m not totally sure about this, but… when I bent over her, I thought I could smell something… something sweet… like almonds.”

  Devlin’s gaze sharpened. “Almonds? Like bitter almond?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know… What’s the difference? It’s that sweetish almond smell—you know, the kind you get in cakes and marzipan and creams and shampoos…” I looked at him curiously. “Does it mean something?”

  “There is a famous poison that has a characteristic smell of bitter almonds on the victim’s breath,” said Devlin thoughtfully. “Cyanide.”

  “Cyanide?” I stared at him. “I thought you said this wasn’t like a mystery novel.”

  Devlin shrugged. “I also said we would consider every possibility. The symptoms Sarah Waltham had would certainly fit with those of cyanide poisoning…”

  I suppressed a shudder. Cyanide? This was getting more and more unbelievable!

  “It may be nothing,” said Devlin quickly. “I shouldn’t even be speculating like this with a member of the public. Forget I said anything,” he said, looking annoyed with himself.

  I didn’t reply, but a part of me was secretly pleased that Devlin had slipped up because he didn’t consider me like any other member of the public.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else, Gemma, I have other people to question…” Devlin started to rise.

  I started to get up as well, then paused, suddenly remembering the conversation I had overheard in the garden. Could that have any bearing on what had happened to Sarah? But it seemed so ridiculous—like bad dialogue from a B-movie—I blushed to even think of repeating it. In any case, what I had really overheard? Two people plotting to… kill someone? No, this was getting into the realms of total fantasy.

  And besides, if I mentioned it, I would have to tell Devlin that I thought one voice was vaguely familiar. Would I have to confess my suspicions that it was Jon? Was I sure it was him? I was aware that my dislike for Jon might bias me against him. Maybe subconsciously, I was looking for a way to discredit him and my overactive imagination did the rest. I didn’t like Jon Kelsey but I didn’t want to make him the key suspect in a murder enquiry for no good reason, particularly as Cassie would never forgive me.

  “Gemma? Is there something else?”

  “No, nothing,” I stood up hastily. “Sorry, my mind wandered for a moment.”

  Devlin looked at me intently and I wondered if he could see through my lie. When we had been students together, he had always had an uncanny ability to guess what I was thinking, to almost read my thoughts. If this had been then, he would have known immediately that I was lying. But now… As I’d said to Cassie, we were different people and that special bond between us was gone. The thought made me feel slightly depressed.

  I let myself out of the office and rejoined the other guests in the outer gallery. Cassie had been questioned and was free to leave with me now but she insisted on staying with Jon. He would have to wait until the last guest had been interviewed and the police were satisfied with the crime scene before he could shut the gallery. I gave Cassie a quick hug, then left, stepping gratefully out into the crisp night air.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The gallery was located in the heart of the city but it wasn’t a long walk to North Oxford where my parents lived. Like most local residents, I normally cycled everywhere, but knowing that I would probably be having a few drinks tonight, I had decided to leave my bike at home. Jon picked up Cassie for the party and had given me a lift as well, and I’d decided to walk back myself. Oxford wasn’t a big city anyway and it was fairly easy to get around on foot.

  It was generally safe in the city centre too—well, except for one’s ankles, I thought wryly as my heel sank into another rut in the network of cobblestones lining the street and I wobbled precariously. I remembered now why I had never worn fancy shoes much when I was a student here. Cobblestones were a killer for high heels. I wished I had had the foresight to pack a pair of ballet flats into my handbag. As it was, I had to stumble and trip my way through the streets, past the historic university buildings and college quadrangles, their Gothic spires and bell towers now wreathed in shadows, and up the long stretch of Banbury Road into the northern suburbs.

  I finally arrived on my street, footsore and weary, to find a police car parked outside my parents’ Victorian townhouse. My heart lurched. Had something happened to them? I quickened my steps and breathed out in relief as I got closer and realised that the constable was at the door of the house next to us. A few curious neighbours had come out of their homes to see what was going on, including my mother—elegantly attired as always in a cashmere twinset and tweed pencil skirt—who was standing at the top of our own front steps.

  “What’s going on, Mother?” I asked as I joined her.

  “I hardly know, darling. I just saw the police arrive…”

  As we watched, the front door of the next house opened and a dumpy-looking, middle-aged woman came out. The constable took off his hat and said something to her. I couldn’t hear what he said but the woman’s eyes widened in horror and she raised her hands to her face. She seemed unable to speak and the constable looked around helplessly. He spied my mother and motioned for her to join him. I found myself following without realising it. We let ourselves into the adjoining garden an
d the constable came over gratefully to meet us.

  “I’m afraid I’ve had to break some bad news,” said the constable in a low voice. “Her daughter was involved in an incident tonight and is dead. Would it be possible for you to stay with her, ma’am? We would normally have a WPC, but we’re a bit short-staffed this evening—”

  My mother gasped. “Oh, my goodness, how dreadful! Of course I’ll stay with her.” She went quickly forwards and put a gentle hand under the other woman’s elbow

  “The CID detectives will be coming to speak to her shortly. The inspector’s just tied up in the city at the moment.”

  I turned to stare at him. Could it be…? Surely it was too much of a coincidence for Oxfordshire CID to be involved in the death of two young women on the same night? This must be Sarah’s mother, I realised—and I also realised suddenly why Sarah had seemed vaguely familiar. I must have seen her once or twice leaving the neighbours’ place when I happened to be coming back myself. She had never been friendly enough to make eye contact or attempt small talk and I had never paid her much attention.

  “I’ll take her back to our house,” my mother said. “She can stay there until the Detective-Inspector comes.”

  The constable nodded, pleased. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

  “Come, my dear,” my mother said to Mrs Waltham. “A cup of tea is what you need…”

  Of course, a cup of tea. Like a typical Englishman—or woman, in her case—a cup of tea was my mother’s solution to everything, from a broken heart to global warming. Mrs Waltham nodded numbly and let my mother lead her back to our house.

  I followed in silence, trying to recall what my mother had told me about our neighbours. They had only moved next door recently—about six months ago, I recalled her saying. Mr Waltham was in his sixties—he must have had Sarah much later in life, which probably explained why she had been so spoilt—and his wife was a lot younger. In fact, I remembered my mother commenting about the age difference in scandalous tones.

  They had one daughter and also a “housekeeper”, a daily help who had apparently been with the family for years—a capable, middle-aged woman with a kindly face and a no-nonsense attitude—though in the past few days, I had noticed a younger woman sweeping the garden and taking out the rubbish. I couldn’t remember my mother saying much else about them, other than praising Mrs Waltham’s beautiful roses.

  Now I showed Mrs Waltham into the living room, whilst my mother went to prepare the tea. I was a bit unsure what to say to the grieving woman—what could I say to someone who had just lost their daughter? I glanced at her surreptitiously, noting with surprise that she did seem young. No more than her early forties. She must have had Sarah at a very young age. And her daughter certainly hadn’t gained her chic style from her mother. Unlike the glamorous creature who had come to the gallery, Mrs Waltham was plain and frumpy. Oh, she was dressed in expensive enough clothes: her shoes looked Italian and hand-made, and I was sure that I had seen the dress she was wearing in the designer racks at the local department store, whilst her hair had obviously been expertly tinted and cut at a top salon. But somehow, the overall effect felt slightly fake, like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes and make-up.

  She caught me looking at her and I flushed. To cover my embarrassment, I said quickly, “I’m really sorry about your daughter, Mrs Waltham.”

  “I… I just can’t believe it…” said the other woman in dazed disbelief. She stared blankly into space. “I don’t know… How can it be…? She was fine earlier this evening… She was going to a party…”

  “Yes, I met her there,” I said without thinking. Then I bit my tongue. I didn’t want Mrs Waltham to start asking me for the gory details. Although I suppose if she found out later that I had been at the party and seen Sarah and hadn’t mentioned it, that wouldn’t have gone down well either.

  Mrs Waltham turned to look at me uncomprehendingly and I hastened to explain. “I was at a party this evening—at a gallery in Oxford—and Sarah was there.”

  She shook her head, still with that look of dazed confusion. “The policeman said there was an incident at the gallery and the ambulance didn’t get there in time. What kind of incident? Did you see what happened?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “It looked like Sarah had some kind of seizure.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense!” Mrs Waltham burst out. “Sarah didn’t have epilepsy.”

  “And she wasn’t a diabetic?”

  Mrs Waltham shook her head.

  “Did she… did she seem like her normal self when she left for the party this evening?” I asked hesitantly. I really wanted to ask if she had been drunk but I couldn’t think of a polite way to broach the topic.

  “Yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Waltham thoughtfully. “Much happier than she’s been lately.”

  What did she mean by that? Before I could ask, my mother came in carrying a tray laden with a Royal Doulton tea set in rose pink with soft gold accents, a plate of home-made butter shortbread and a stack of linen napkins. She set this on the lounge table, sat down, and gracefully began to serve tea, carefully pouring out the deep, orange-red liquid through the silver strainer into the teacups and handing these around.

  I watched her admiringly. Much as I disagreed with my mother’s 1950’s housewife approach to life, I did wish I could perform everyday domestic tasks like this with such poise and elegance. It’s a bit of a lost art in recent generations of women, I think, with our race to get to the top of the corporate career ladder and our contempt for “ladylike” habits and pursuits.

  “Sarah loves… I mean, Sarah loved shortbread,” said Mrs Waltham suddenly, eyeing the plate. “Our old housekeeper, Mrs Hicks, used to make some each week.” Her lips quivered. “I… I can’t believe that Sarah is never going to be helping herself from that tin anymore…”

  My mother looked slightly alarmed at so much emotion being displayed. The thought of having to discuss “Feelings” was just too much for her British sensibilities. She was no doubt thinking that Mrs Waltham ought to show more of a proper stiff upper lip in the face of tragedy.

  She lifted the milk jug and said brightly, “Milk? Sugar?” as if we were all sitting down to Sunday afternoon tea.

  Still, maybe my mother was right about the tea. There was certainly a kind of comfort in the familiar ritual and it gave one something to do, something to focus on. There was a companionable silence for a while as we busied ourselves adding milk and sugar to the cups, tasting the shortbread, handing around napkins—broken only by Mrs Waltham suddenly jerking upright and saying:

  “Oh God, I… I’ll have to tell David.”

  “Is that Mr Waltham?” I asked.

  She nodded miserably. “He’s in hospital at the moment.” She saw our expressions and explained, “He went in for a prostate operation, and then unfortunately, developed complications afterwards: he got septicaemia. He was quite bad earlier this week and we were so worried… but thank goodness, he seems to have turned a corner, although he’ll be in the ICU ward for a few days.” She swallowed. “He’s going to be devastated…”

  The front doorbell rang and my mother looked immensely relieved. She went quickly to answer it, returning in a moment to say that the police were here to escort Mrs Waltham back to her house where Detective-Inspector O’Connor was waiting to question her. I followed Sarah’s mother to the front door and stood thoughtfully on the threshold, watching as the constable led her away.

  “What a dreadful business,” my mother commented as she shut the door and led the way back to the living room. “That poor woman.”

  “Do you know much about the Walthams?” I asked as we began to clear up the tea things.

  My mother shook her head. “Not really, darling. They’re not unfriendly but they do keep to themselves. They haven’t been here long, of course—only about six months, so I don’t know them that well. They used to live in Woodstock, I believe, but Mr Waltham wanted to be closer in
to town, especially as Sarah was in her final year and no longer had college accommodation—so she had moved back home and it was easier for her to be closer to the University. And you know the Collinses had been wanting to sell up next door for ages and trade down to a flat in London, so it worked out well all round.”

  “Have you met Mr Waltham?”

  “Only to say hello to,” my mother said. “I’ve seen him a few times, you know, just when we pass each other coming in and out… Oh, I did see him a couple of weeks ago in town, with Mrs Waltham, coming out of our solicitors’ office. They must use Sexton, Lovell & Billingsley as well. I was just popping in to drop off a document for your father and we stopped and had a nice chat.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “I could hardly ask that, Gemma!” My mother looked scandalised. “They didn’t look particularly cheerful—but then, legal matters can be so tedious.”

  “And Sarah wasn’t with them?”

  “No. In fact, I think I’ve only spoken to her once. She is—was—a very attractive girl.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, although I thought the attractiveness was only skin-deep, but I didn’t voice my thoughts aloud.

  “Anyway!” My mother heaved a sigh, then said in a different voice, “How was Cassie’s party, darling?”

  “Oh, it went very well—until the incident with Sarah, that is. There were lots of people there, especially important people in the art world, and Cassie’s paintings seemed to be getting a lot of attention.”

  “Well, I must say—I’m surprised you didn’t ask Lincoln to go with you,” My mother pursed her lips. “Such a nice boy, so well brought up—and so handsome…”

  I sighed to myself. Here we go. My mother’s favourite subject.

  “… really, any girl would be lucky to have Lincoln as her escort. And he’s such an eminent doctor too! And of course, with his mother being my closest friend, he’d be the perfect match! In fact, I was just saying to Helen the other day that if you two decided on an autumn wedding, we could book The Orangery at Blenheim Palace and have—”