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

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that,” I said with a smile.

  “And if you need anything, Mrs Waltham, we’re just next door,” said my mother as we bade our farewells. “Don’t hesitate to pop by!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I didn’t have much time before Lincoln Green was arriving to pick me up for the concert at the Sheldonian Theatre. I wolfed my dinner, much to my mother’s disapproval, then ran upstairs to change. I had a hurried shower to wash off the grime of the day and then dressed quickly in a pretty sweater and jeans, careful to make sure that I didn’t look like I was making too much effort.

  When the doorbell rang, I managed to get to the door and hustle Lincoln back out before my mother could intervene. We drove into the centre of Oxford in Lincoln’s Land Rover and parked in one of the back lanes by the theatre. Ever the properly-brought-up English gent, Lincoln rushed to open the car door for me and hold my coat up as I shrugged my arms into the sleeves.

  “You look very lovely tonight, Gemma,” he said, his eyes roving over me appreciatively.

  I thanked him coolly and hurriedly changed the subject. I’d been out with Lincoln a couple of times before and I had always been cautious about avoiding personal comments, and making a great effort to emphasise that these were simply friendly meet-ups rather than any kind of romantic “date”.

  I liked Lincoln but I wasn’t sure if I could ever see him as more than a friend. At first, I had been rabidly against him and I had spent that first awkward dinner—set up by his mother and mine—in an agony of embarrassment. But funnily enough, our joint humiliation at the hands of our mothers seemed to have forged a bond between us. And in spite of my reservations, I had to admit that Lincoln was a nice guy. Good-looking too, if you liked the clean-cut, English gentleman type.

  No, he would never make my heart race like Devlin did—with Lincoln, there were no enigmatic intentions, no agonising dilemmas, no wild joy or fury—but maybe that was a good thing. I was old enough now to realise that love—real love—wasn’t just about passionate kisses in the rain. There was something to be said for openness and stability—all those things that you never cared about when you were young and full of romantic ideals. So, I acknowledged that Lincoln was pleasant company and who knew what might happen?

  But in the meantime, I didn’t want to get his hopes up. So I kept things as light as possible. Lincoln seemed aware of my attempts and took them in good humour, for which I was grateful. If nothing else, it was nice to have a friend in Oxford—especially as, since Cassie had started going out with Jon, she no longer seemed interested in doing anything that didn’t involve him. I missed our girlie get-togethers.

  I sighed inwardly. Maybe I was being childish. If my best friend loved Jon Kelsey and he was going to become a part of her life, then I had to find a way to like him too or risk losing my friend altogether. But I had to admit that I was still hoping that things with Jon would fizzle out and Cassie and I could return to the way we had been before.

  Of course, things with Jon would come to a grinding halt if he was arrested for murder…

  I felt a guilty hope at the treacherous thought and hurriedly pushed it away, bringing my attention back to the present. We had just stepped into the main hall of the Sheldonian Theatre and Lincoln was guiding me to our seats. I sat down and looked around appreciatively as the orchestra began tuning up. I hadn’t been back here since I left Oxford eight years ago and I found myself flooded with memories of my student days. I had come to the Sheldonian several times during my university years to listen to concerts and recitals (the cheap student seats in the Upper Gallery!) and although I wasn’t a huge classical music fan, I’d enjoyed the experience.

  There was something special about sitting there under the magnificent painted ceiling of that 17th-century hall and feeling the music swelling around you. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, the Sheldonian Theatre was built to resemble an ancient Roman amphitheatre—a complete departure from the Gothic architecture which dominated Oxford at the time—and it included a unique octagonal roof cupola, which provided breath-taking 360-degree panoramic views of Oxford’s “dreaming spires”. It was the University’s official ceremonial hall, used for Matriculation and Graduation ceremonies, and the last time I had been there was the day I graduated. I hadn’t been able to get away fast enough then and shake the dust of Oxford off my heels, but time and distance away had given me a new appreciation for my university city.

  The soft strains of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” began to fill the hall and I leaned back as the lights dimmed, allowing myself to be carried away by the music. When the lights finally came back on for the interval, I was surprised to find that my mind was pleasantly blank and dreamy.

  Lincoln looked at me with a smile. “Enjoying it?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Much more than when I was a student, actually. Maybe classical music is one of those things you appreciate more when you get older.” I shifted uncomfortably on the hardwood chair and added with a laugh, “The seats haven’t changed though—they’re as hard as ever!”

  Lincoln chuckled. “I think it’s to stop you falling asleep if the music isn’t that good.” He stood up and stretched stiffly. “Fancy a walk to stretch your legs?”

  I nodded and allowed him to escort me out of the theatre and into the courtyard of the adjoining Bodleian Library. We strolled through the shadows cast by the Gothic spires and castellated parapets above us. It was chilly but refreshing to be out in the night air.

  Lincoln let out a weary sigh and said, “Uncomfortable as the seats are, it’s nice to get off my feet after a day at the hospital.”

  “Do you do a lot of walking then?”

  He nodded ruefully. “Between the ward rounds and the on-calls and the Medical Emergency Response calls, you cover a lot of miles. And today was a particularly busy one. We had an unstable patient in ICU who required a lot of monitoring and I was called back to see him a few times.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “He developed septicaemia following routine prostate surgery last week. He deteriorated very quickly and required intensive support but seemed to be recovering, and then unfortunately he took a turn for the worse again today. I don’t think his state of mind helped—he’d just received some bad news.” He glanced at me, his face sober. “It was the father of the murdered girl.”

  I stopped walking. “Sarah Waltham’s father?”

  Lincoln nodded. “He took it very hard. I gather that she was his only child. I was there when his wife came to tell him and I don’t think he even took it in at first—kept insisting that there must have been some mistake, that he had only seen Sarah yesterday—”

  “Yesterday? When did he see her?”

  “She came in to visit him yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “Yes, I did, actually,” said Lincoln. “I happened to be doing my rounds and there was a real fracas just as I arrived at Waltham’s bedside. Sarah was having a huge row with one of the nurses. I almost thought of calling security, but thankfully another visitor arrived at that moment and helped to diffuse the situation. An old family friend, I think. She’d brought some shortbread that she’d baked—I think they used to be Sarah’s favourite or something—anyway, she offered some to Sarah, which seemed to distract her, and things calmed down after that.”

  I was reflecting that Sarah seemed to cause strife wherever she went. “What did you think of her? Sarah Waltham, I mean,” I asked Lincoln.

  “She seemed to be… uh… a difficult character,” he said.

  I smiled to myself. Trust Lincoln to be too polite to state the bald truth.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea of what could have poisoned Sarah?” I looked hopefully at Lincoln. “You know, with your medical knowledge and all that.”

  He shook his head. “Toxicology is a highly specialised field. I mean, I know how to administer the antidotes for the more common poisons, of course, and to recognise the s
ymptoms, but unless the poison used is pharmacologically based, I wouldn’t necessarily have specialist knowledge about it.”

  “Did Mr Waltham have a heart issue? I’ve heard that some of those heart drugs are supposed to be really toxic, aren’t they?”

  Lincoln smiled. “You’re thinking of digitalis. Yes, that is a pretty lethal substance but David Waltham wasn’t on any heart medication.”

  I fell silent as we started walking again. It was almost the end of the interval and time to return to the hall. We had circled around the front façade of the Sheldonian Theatre, coming out onto Broad Street. I could hear the faint strains of the orchestra tuning up again. We turned and hurried towards the nearest door and arrived there just as a group of young men were also entering. They were talking and laughing animatedly, clapping each other on the back, and as one of them turned to glance back, I realised with a shock that it was Devlin. I almost didn’t recognise him in jeans and a leather jacket, looking dark and dangerous and nothing like his usual debonair detective persona.

  The smile faded from his face as he saw me with Lincoln. He gave a curt nod.

  “Gemma.”

  “Uh… hi, Devlin.”

  His cool blue gaze flicked to Lincoln and I said hurriedly:

  “Um… this is Lincoln… Lincoln Green. He’s… he’s a friend of the family.”

  I flushed, wondering if I sounded like I was trying to justify my being with Lincoln. It was stupid. Was I worried that Devlin would think that we were on a romantic date? That I had turned down his invitation to go out with Lincoln? And so what if he did?

  The two men shook hands, eyeing each other warily.

  “Are you a friend of Gemma’s?” asked Lincoln.

  A ghost of a smile flickered over Devlin’s mouth. “Yeah, we were at Oxford together. I’m a detective with Oxfordshire CID.” He narrowed his eyes. “Lincoln Green… not Dr Lincoln Green?”

  “The same.”

  “I understand that Sarah Waltham’s father is your patient?”

  Lincoln’s manner became very formal. “He is under my care, yes.”

  “I’m investigating Sarah Waltham’s death. I was planning to come to speak to you tomorrow. I believe that Sarah came to the hospital on the day she died?”

  “Yes, Gemma and I were just talking about that,” said Lincoln stiffly. “She was causing a bit of trouble on the ward.”

  Devlin’s gaze sharpened. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Just some disagreement with the nurses.”

  Devlin seemed about to say something else but the lights began dimming in the hall and I realised that we were the last people still standing.

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Dr Green,” said Devlin. He inclined his head at me, his voice cool. “Good night, Gemma.”

  I followed Lincoln silently back to our seats and sat down in the dark, but this time I found myself unable to concentrate on the music. Instead, my thoughts kept drifting to the man sitting on the other side of the lower gallery, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was thinking of me too.

  CHAPTER TEN

  You know how they say you should step out of your comfort zone sometimes? Well, I didn’t just step—I leapt without looking first. Deciding to run a tearoom had been the first impulsive thing I did in my life and, after pouring all my savings into the place, I was desperate for it to succeed. So desperate that, when I first opened it, I spent every waking moment (and some of my sleeping ones too) working like a maniac.

  After a while, I began to realise that I needed to give myself at least a day off a week otherwise I would be facing burn-out. So, reluctantly, I decided that I would close the tearoom on Mondays, which was normally the quietest day of the week anyway. As it was, I seemed to find myself spending most of my Mondays catching up on admin and emails and that’s what I was doing the next morning when the doorbell rang.

  I looked up, half-expecting to hear my mother’s dulcet tones at the door, then I remembered that she and my father had both gone out to the dentist for their check-ups this morning. I heaved myself off my bed, displacing Muesli, who had been curled up happily across my ankles. She gave an indignant “Meorrw!”, then jumped off the bed and trotted after me as I went downstairs. A middle-aged man in a courier’s uniform stood on the threshold when I opened the door.

  “Parcel for Gemma Rose?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said, looking in puzzlement at the soft brown package he handed to me. It bore the logo of a nation-wide store which sold various household items. I didn’t remember ordering anything from them.

  “Sign here…” He handed me a clipboard with a form on it.

  “Wait… I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order anything from—”

  “You Gemma Rose?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said impatiently. “But—”

  “Well, looks like it’s yours then, luv. It’s your name on the form right here. Online order.”

  Online? Uh-oh… I suddenly remembered my mother going on about buying something for me online… what was it she had said? I wished I had been paying more attention.

  “What’s in the package?” I asked warily.

  The man tilted his head to read the description on the form. “Says here they’re memory foam jester slippers.”

  “Jester slippers?” I turned the package over. Sure enough, on the underside was a little product information sheet taped to the package. And a picture of a pair of lurid red-and-green jester slippers, complete with a bell at the end of each curled toe. They were hideous.

  “I never ordered these!” I exclaimed.

  The man looked at me doubtfully. “Well, you can ring Customer Service and take it up with them—get the slippers changed for something else, if you like. Number’s there…” He nodded at the information sheet.

  “Can’t I just get a refund?” I wailed.

  The man brightened. “Oh. We’ve got a special offer at the moment. ‘Try Before You Buy’—so yeah, you could get a refund. But it ends today, luv, so there won’t be time for you to post it back. You’ll have to take the slippers in person to the store in town and get a refund there.”

  I sighed. “Okay.” I signed his form and shut the door behind him, looking down at the package again. What on earth had my mother been thinking?

  I hadn’t made it halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang again. Turning, I went back down the stairs and found myself once again facing a courier when I opened the door.

  “Delivery for Gemma Rose,” he said, holding up a long, slim box.

  Oh God. What had my mother ordered me now?

  This time I didn’t even bother to argue but just signed the form in weary resignation. After he’d gone, I looked at the box nervously. It looked innocent enough, with no picture of ugly weird slippers or other memory foam products on the outside. When I opened it, it revealed six piles of fabric, neatly folded. They were a nice, normal colour—bright, sunny yellow—and when I unfolded one, I saw that it was a frilly apron.

  I breathed a small sigh of relief. Okay, this one might not be so bad. These must be for the tearoom. I remembered that my mother had been talking about ordering a batch of aprons so that Cassie and I could look coordinated as we served the customers. At the moment, we were using some mismatched options I’d picked up for cheap at a local market. These were in a nice quality cotton, with a pretty yellow gingham check pattern.

  I turned them over, then stared in horror at the front. In bright red letters across the apron were the words: “Chefs don’t cook—that’s what wives are for” together with a print of a 1950’s housewife smiling cheerily as she bent over a hot stove. And behind her stood a grinning man raising his hand to smack her bottom.

  Oh my God… what was my mother thinking? I could get arrested wearing these in the tearoom!

  I sighed and decided I’d deal with them—together with the jester slippers—later. I had barely sat down in front of my laptop again when the doorbell rang once more. I gritted my t
eeth. I might as well have just stood by the door at this rate!

  “Yes?” I snapped as I opened the door, only to pause in surprise when I saw Cassie and Jon on the doorstep.

  “Cassie! I thought you guys would have already left by now!”

  “We’re on our way to the airport,” said Cassie. “But I was wondering if I could borrow your mack? Mine’s at the dry-cleaner’s and the forecast is for rain in Florence.”

  “Oh, sure—come in.” I showed them into the living room. “I’ll just run upstairs and get it.”

  Before I could move, however, we were surprised by a strange growling sound. I turned to see that Muesli had puffed up to three times her normal size, her fur standing on end and her eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at us.

  “Muesli! What’s the matter with you?” I looked at her in surprise.

  She growled again and I realised that her gaze was directed at Jon Kelsey. She hissed suddenly and spat at him.

  “What’s wrong with her?” said Cassie in bewilderment.

  “Oh, she just needs a bit of correct handling,” said Jon loftily, bending down and reaching his hand out. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty…”

  Muesli spat again and raked a claw at him. He yelped and jumped back.

  “My God, she’s vicious!” he said.

  I hid a smile. “She’s not. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s normally the sweetest, friendliest little cat…” For Cassie’s sake, I added, “Maybe she just doesn’t like the cologne you’re wearing or something. They say cats are really sensitive to fragrances…”

  I didn’t know why I was making excuses for Muesli’s behaviour. After all, I didn’t like Jon myself. But maybe that was it. I felt slightly guilty, like maybe it was my own hostility towards Jon that Muesli had picked up on. Didn’t they say that animals could pick up on your emotions?

  They also said that animals had a sixth sense and could tell good from evil…