Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) (10 page)

I told Devlin about my visit to the Walthams’ house and my snooping around Sarah’s bedroom. Our food arrived just as I was finishing and my mouth watered at the aromas arising from the plates set down in front of us. Devlin had ordered “bangers and mash” for himself—British pork sausage with champ mash, beer-and-mustard gravy, and sweet potato crisps—and a traditional fish and chips for me: hand-battered cod with minted mushy peas, chunky tartare sauce, thick-cut chips, and apple cider vinegar.

We fell into a companionable silence—the case temporarily forgotten—as we munched the food. For a moment, it felt almost like the old student days when we had shared many a plate together at the various pubs around Oxford.

At last, I leaned back with a contented sigh. “Oh my God, I can’t eat another bite.”

“What—no pudding?” said Devlin with a smile.

“Oh… well, there’s always space for pudding,” I said with a chuckle.

I glanced at the Specials board near the bar counter. There seemed to be a choice of pear tart with salted caramel and hazel nuts, sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream ice-cream, or dipping doughnuts with Bramley apple sauce—as well as the eternal favourite: triple chocolate brownie. They all sounded delicious and I didn’t know which one to choose.

In the end, I went for the sticky toffee pudding—a traditional British dessert that I hadn’t had in a long time. It came warm, with a gorgeous treacle sauce drizzled on top, and the cake rich and moist. It was the ultimate comfort food on a cold winter’s day, and when I had licked the last bit of toffee sauce from my spoon, I felt like I could take on the whole world.

Devlin watched me in amusement. “Anyone would think that you’d never had dessert in your life before.”

“Not like this,” I said, giving the spoon another lick. “People might complain about British food but our desserts are incomparable!”

He laughed as he took a sip of his coffee, then his face sobered as he returned to the subject of the case. As far as Jon Kelsey was concerned, he told me, the story seemed to pan out. Devlin’s sergeant had done some checking around and it seemed that what Jon had said was true: Sarah had been a frequent visitor at his London gallery and there had been reports of some “nasty” scenes.

“Kelsey’s assistant was very coy,” said Devlin. “But of course, she would be. A top-notch gallery like that, they would want to maintain their image and it’s not good business PR to admit that a former customer was causing havoc. It’s embarrassing and they would want to sweep it under the carpet.”

“All this sort of tallies with what Mrs Waltham told me,” I said. “You know, about Sarah going down to London a lot. She said that she thought her stepdaughter had been having an affair with a London man and that maybe the man was married—because of the furtive way Sarah had been behaving.”

“That might have just been embarrassment and pride on Sarah’s part,” said Devlin. “After all, if Jon was rejecting her, she wouldn’t want to broadcast it around that she was chasing after him.”

“So you think the Jon Kelsey angle is a dead end?” I said.

“I’m reserving my judgement for the moment,” said Devlin with his customary caution.

I thought again of the conversation I had overheard in the gallery gardens on Saturday night:

“Are we going to do it tonight?”

“Relax… everything in good time.”

“I… I can’t bear the waiting. The suspense is killing me!”

“You knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on.”

I still hadn’t mentioned it to Devlin. Somehow—some remnant of loyalty to Cassie—had kept my mouth shut on the subject. Jon Kelsey was already a suspect and my account of the conversation would only turn the spotlight on him even more. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that—at least, not until I had had a chance to investigate him further myself. And maybe to speak to Cassie first about what I’d found out as well. She’d never forgive me if she thought I’d sicced the police on Jon.

“To be honest, other than the fact that Sarah died in his gallery and had a prior acquaintance with him, there are no strong reasons to suspect Jon of being the murderer. There may be another man involved that we don’t know about yet. We’re currently checking to see if Sarah might have had other boyfriends. But she didn’t seem to confide in many people and no one seems to have seen her with a man recently. In Oxford anyway.”

“And what about Fiona? What did the staff tell you at the Art School?”

“Not much. They were apparently both hard-working students… perhaps a bit too hard-working. Their tutor admitted to me that there was some academic rivalry between Sarah and Fiona but he brushed it off as healthy competition.”

“It didn’t sound that healthy to me,” I said and recounted what the Japanese girl had told me about the Art Scholar’s Award.

Devlin whistled. “That’s a lot more serious than I was led to believe by the staff.”

“Well, I imagine they wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it—you know, it doesn’t look good for the school to have students behaving like that.”

“It would certainly give Fiona motive…” Devlin mused.

“Would someone really kill another person just to get revenge for a lost scholarship?”

“I’ve seen people kill for less,” said Devlin grimly. “Bitterness and resentment can eat away inside you…”

“I suppose—of all the people at the party—Fiona had the most opportunity to poison Sarah’s tea.”

“Actually… there was no poison in the tea.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“I’ve had the preliminary report from the toxicologist. SOCO managed to collect the fragments of the shattered teacup and also some of the spilled tea. Both were tested and neither contained suspicious foreign substances.”

“But… but I thought you said Sarah was poisoned—”

“Oh, she was poisoned, all right—just not with the tea.”

“So the Old Biddies got it wrong,” I said. “They seemed so sure that they saw Fiona putting poison into the teacup.”

“Well, remember they didn’t actually say that. They simply said that they saw the two girls exchanging words and that Fiona would have had a good opportunity to put something into Sarah’s drink. Which is true. But according to the tests, nothing was in the teacup except tea, milk, and sugar.”

“So does that mean Fiona is off the hook, then?”

“Not necessarily. She could still have found other ways to introduce the poison…”

I frowned. “But where else could she have put the cyanide?”

“We’re not certain yet it’s cyanide,” Devlin reminded me. “The toxicology analysis hasn’t confirmed that yet. I’m hoping to have the full report from the toxicologist by tomorrow. But Fiona could have hidden the cyanide in any number of ways. Maybe she gave Sarah something to eat that the Old Biddies didn’t see, or maybe she put something on the rim of the cup… That’s been tested, of course, and it’s come up negative so far, but if only a thin layer was applied and Sarah drank from that section of the rim, then presumably her saliva might have washed all traces of the poison away… I don’t know—this is just me tossing ideas off the top of my head—but it’s just an example of how poison could have been administered without being in the tea itself.”

I sat back. “But… if you don’t know how the poison was delivered, how can you possibly work out who did it?”

“That’s one of the toughest things with poison cases. Unlike a normal murder, it isn’t just a case of establishing time of death and alibis and finding the murder weapon. With a poisoning, anyone who could have had access to the poison—and who had the opportunity to administer the poison—has to be considered. And then if you add in the possibility of a slow-acting poison, which means that the victim could have been poisoned several hours before their death, then that means that the window of opportunity and the pool of suspects gets even larger.”

“I thought cyanide is a fast-acting poison?” I said.

“Yes, one of the fastest. Cyanide can kill within one to fifteen minutes in large doses. But it all depends on the dosage—and also on things such as whether the victim had a full stomach, which may slow absorption.”

“So what you’re saying is that Sarah could have been poisoned by someone she met
before
she came to party?”

Devlin nodded. “It’s a possibility we can’t rule out. I’m currently gathering evidence to try and reconstruct her movements last Saturday. We know that she left her house at about 6:45 p.m. to go to the party. Mrs Waltham confirmed that. And before that, she was at the Art School all afternoon… oh, and she popped in to see her father at the hospital before she went home.”

“Yes, Lincoln mentioned that last night,” I said. “He said he was doing his rounds and he arrived to find Sarah causing a huge scene with one of the nurses. He almost had to call security, but then another visitor arrived and helped to defuse the situation.”

“I’m going to the hospital this afternoon to speak to your boyfriend,” said Devlin.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said quickly before I realised, then I flushed, angry at myself.

Devlin raised a sardonic eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

I cleared my throat. “So you don’t have any other suspects at the moment?”

“Not specifically—but we’re considering anyone who might have had a reason for wanting to harm Sarah.”

“From what I’ve heard of her so far, that’s almost everyone,” I said. “She didn’t sound like a very nice person.” I had a thought. “What about life insurance? Did Sarah have a policy on her life?”

“She was only twenty-three,” Devlin said dryly. “No, she didn’t have a policy. If anybody wanted money, they would have done better to marry her. She was an only child and the heir to her father’s estate. But she had no assets of her own.”

I made a noise of frustration. “I feel like we’re just going around in circles.”

“Well, the good thing about a circle is that it has no beginning and no end—so as long as the killer is going round on the same circle, we’ll catch up with him or her at some point,” said Devlin grimly. His blue eyes were cold and hard. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Devlin walked me from the pub back out to Broad Street and left me outside the Sheldonian Theatre. I started to make my way up to North Oxford where my parents lived but a sign above a shop on the other side of the road caught my eye. It was Jon Kelsey’s gallery. On an impulse, I crossed the road and went into the gallery.

It was strange being back in daylight. The place had been cleaned up, of course, and there was no trace of what had occurred. There were several tourists as well as what looked like a few locals browsing the works on display. I was pleased to see quite a few people in front of Cassie’s paintings, pointing and nodding admiringly.

There was a young woman, with the sort of ice-cool blonde looks that went so well with modern art and minimalist chic, standing by one of the canvases, discussing it with a middle-aged couple. I recognised her as Jon’s assistant from the party. She looked slightly harassed—I guess with Jon being away in Italy, the whole of the business fell on her shoulders and today looked like a particularly busy day.

I wandered a bit aimlessly around, pretending to look at some of the pieces but really wondering what I was doing there. What had I hoped to achieve? Did I think that by coming back to the “scene of the crime”, some clue would magically appear for me to find?
This is stupid
, I told myself impatiently. I was about to leave when I noticed a stairway on the other side of the gallery, half-concealed behind a pillar. I didn’t remember seeing it on the night of the party. Curious, I drifted over, wondering where it led.

“Can I help you?”

I jumped and turned around to find myself facing Jon’s assistant. “Oh… er… I just thought there might be more galleries upstairs…”

“No, all the exhibits are down here. It’s only private quarters upstairs.” She smiled at me. “You’re Cassie’s friend, aren’t you? I saw you at the party. I’m Danni.”

“Hi.” I returned her smile, then added sympathetically, “That must have been a nightmare night for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can’t imagine. We were here until 1 a.m. and then, of course, the police wanted the whole gallery shut down for the weekend. In fact, we didn’t even think that we would be able to re-open today, but thank goodness, they released the crime scene this morning.”

“I’m surprised that Jon still wanted to go to Italy—I would have thought that he’d want to stay to help you sort things out.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, then was quickly masked. “Oh, Jon had an important meeting in Florence and it couldn’t be changed. Anyway, I’m more than capable of holding the fort myself,” she said with a smooth smile.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said. “Did you know Sarah Waltham, by the way? I understand that Jon said she used to come into his London gallery…”

“Yeah, I met her a few times in London. She was a pain in the backside,” Danni said bluntly. “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead but seriously, that girl had problems. She made poor Jon’s life a nightmare.”

“I can’t believe that she called herself his girlfriend?” I said chattily.

“I know!” said Danni. “Of course, she isn’t the first one. Women love Jon, and even if he doesn’t mean to flirt with them, they think he’s paying them special attention. They never leave him in peace,” she said angrily, with a PA’s customary protectiveness towards her boss.

I glanced back up the staircase. “I didn’t realise that Jon lived here?”

“Well, it’s really a sort of city pad—he doesn’t spend much time here. I think he spends most of his time with Cassie at the moment. He’s also got a darkroom up there,” she added.

“Jon’s into photography?”

She nodded. “Ever since he was a teenager. It’s what got him into art in the first place. He still likes doing things the old-fashioned way—you know, developing prints on paper. So he got a darkroom fitted up there with all the solutions and equipment. You should ask him to show you his photographs some time—he’s really quite good.”

One of the other customers called from across the room and Danni excused herself. I drifted back towards the door. There seemed to be no point hanging around here—I decided that I might as well go home and get on with my chores. I was about to leave the gallery when I glanced back and noticed three small figures skulking by the pillar in the far corner. My eyes widened. It was the Old Biddies. What were they doing here?

I watched in disbelief as they crept to the bottom of the staircase, then—with a furtive glance around—Mabel Cooke waved the others past her up the stairs first. She waited until the rest had gone up, then with one last look over her shoulder, she hurried up after them. For little old women, they could sure move fast!

I glanced quickly over to the other side of the gallery where Danni was busily wrapping up a small painting whilst talking to a couple at the reception counter. She hadn’t seen a thing.

Unbelievable. What were the Old Biddies doing?

I darted back across the gallery to the foot of the staircase and peered upwards. I couldn’t hear anything. I glanced back at Danni. Her attention was still focused on the couple. I turned back to the stairs, hovering uncertainly over the bottom step. If Cassie ever found out that I had gone snooping into Jon’s private quarters, she would be furious. But the Old Biddies were already up there—what more harm could I do? I was just following them to make sure that they didn’t cause mischief, I told myself righteously, and started up the stairs.

The staircase led up to a small landing, from which two doors led off in opposite directions. I tried the door on my left first. It was locked. I turned to the one on my right and found that it opened into a large, spacious loft bedroom with a view onto the street. Quickly, I stepped in and shut the door behind me, then looked around with interest. The room was done up in a Scandinavian interior design style—all white walls and cool greys and neutrals, geometric designs and minimalist furniture. A Bang & Olufsen sound system was mounted on the wall above the bed and a leather zero-gravity recliner took pride of place in the corner by the window. It seemed that Jon Kelsey liked to live in style, even when he was barely there.

The bed was a vast king-sized affair, with a black leather headboard and shining chrome legs. It dominated the room and was covered with navy silk sheets, a staggering array of pillows, and a faux mink throw. I looked up and realised that it was also placed beneath a mirror mounted on the ceiling.
Eeuuw
. I could just imagine Jon as the kind of man who liked to admire himself in bed…

There was an en suite bathroom with a compact shower and basin. It was bare except for a fluffy grey towel and a black leather bag unzipped to show a complement of men’s grooming equipment—the complete opposite of Sarah Waltham’s haphazard clutter. I checked the wardrobe next to the bed and rifled through the racks of colour-coordinated suits and shirts. The drawers below must have held his underwear and socks, but I drew the line at going through Jon Kelsey’s underthings.

I shut the wardrobe door and turned back to scan the room again in frustration. There was really nothing of interest—it was a spare, bachelor room with hardly any place to hide anything. In any case, I didn’t really know what I was looking for—it wasn’t as if Jon was going to have a framed photo of himself and Sarah on display!

Feeling slightly foolish, I turned to go, but as I did so my elbow knocked against the Louis Poulsen bedside lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.

I froze.
Oh hell.

Had Danni heard it downstairs? She knew that no one was supposed to be up here… Faintly, I could hear the echo of footsteps hurrying across the gallery below.

Oh bugger!
Danni must be coming up to check on the noise.

I grabbed the lamp and set it back on the bedside table, then looked frantically around. There was nowhere to hide in all this minimalist chic. Even the wardrobe wasn’t big enough to squeeze into. Thinking about it now, I wondered suddenly where the Old Biddies had gone. I had forgotten all about them but they must have come in here too. They couldn’t have gone into the other locked room and they weren’t in here. So where were they?

No time to worry about them now. I could hear the sound of someone coming up the stairs. Danni would be here any second and I didn’t fancy having to explain myself…

The bed
, I thought. It was the only option. Dropping to my knees, I crawled quickly beneath the bed just as I heard footsteps outside the door. My hip bumped into something soft. I turned my head and stifled a scream. Three pairs of beady old eyes were looking back at me. I stared incredulously at Mabel, Florence, and Glenda wedged side by side beneath the bed slats.

“
What are you
—”

“Shhh!” hissed Mabel, glaring at me. “You’re going to spoil everything!”

I clamped my mouth shut as I heard the door open. We all held our breaths. Through the gap beneath the bed, I saw a pair of stilettos walk into the room. They went past us, around the side of bed and into the bathroom, then came back out again.

Please don’t look under the bed… Please don’t look under the bed…
I prayed.

The silence stretched until I thought my nerves would snap. Just when I thought I couldn’t bear it any longer, the stilettos turned and headed back towards the door. A minute later, the door shut quietly and I heard footsteps going back down the stairs.

I dropped my forehead down on the floor and released the breath I’d been holding.
Whew.
That had been a close one.

There was a shuffle of movement next to me and I raised my head back up to see Mabel and the other Old Biddies wriggling their way out from under the bed. Hurriedly, I followed their example and stood up to find them dusting themselves off and patting their fluffy white hair.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded in a hushed tone. “Sneaking around in Jon’s private bedroom!”

“We could ask you the same thing,” Mabel retorted.

“I—” I stopped. She was right. I tried to prevaricate. “Actually, I saw you three going up the stairs and decided to follow you.”

“Mabel!” said Florence reproachfully. “You were supposed to act as lookout!”

“What do you suppose the mirror is for, Gemma?” said Glenda, looking up at it curiously.

Oh no. She can’t seriously be expecting me to explain that.

“Why were you under the bed, Glenda?” I asked quickly.

“We heard you coming,” she explained. “Well, we didn’t know it was you, of course. We thought it was that assistant girl. Thank goodness Jon Kelsey has such a large bed!” She turned to Florence with a frown. “I still think you’re getting too fat, Flo. There was barely any room when you squeezed in.”

“I’m not fat!” said Florence, outraged. “It was your silly cardigan with all those bobbles that was taking up the room!”

“We wouldn’t have had to hide under the bed at all if it wasn’t for you, Gemma,” said Mabel, glowering at me. “If you hadn’t been so clumsy with that lamp, the assistant girl would never have even known that anyone was up here.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” I said, annoyed at how defensive I sounded. “Where is Ethel? How come she isn’t with you?”

“Aha… she’s part of our extraction plan,” said Mabel.

“Your… ‘extraction plan’?”

As if on cue, there came a wail from downstairs and then a soft thump, followed by several cries and the sound of running feet.

“Diversion,” said Mabel smugly. “Everybody expects little old ladies to be frail so we just play up to the stereotype. Come on, girls, this is our chance. Everyone should be too distracted to watch the staircase now.”

Mabel marched out of the bedroom, followed by the others. I ran after them. At the bottom of the staircase, we paused and peered around the pillar. A crowd of people were gathered on the other side of the gallery. I saw a pair of legs in thick compression stockings poking out from between them. Glenda and Florence began hurrying towards the crowd but Mabel whacked a hand on my chest to stop me as I tried to follow them.

“You stay here,” she said. “We don’t want to be seen with you. You’ll totally ruin our operation. Meet us outside in five minutes.”

Leaving me gaping after her, Mabel patted her hair, then sailed over to the crowd. She elbowed her way through and people parted. I saw Ethel slumped on the floor with Glenda and Florence hovering over her.

“Some smelling salts is all she needs,” declared Mabel, whipping a tiny vial out of her beige handbag and waving it under Ethel’s nose.

“Aaaaah!” Ethel jerked upright like a jack-in-the-box, scaring the crowd around her. She sneezed and glared at Mabel, hissing, “Did you have to use quite so much?”

Mabel ignored her and helped her to her feet. “I think we’d better get you home, dear, and to a nice cup of tea,” she said loudly as she began propelling Ethel out of the shop. Glenda and Florence scurried after her. The rest of the crowd watched them go in bewilderment. I hesitated a moment, then ran after them, wanting to get out before Danni noticed me.

Out on the street, I looked right and left, and spotted the Old Biddies, who were shuffling down the street as fast as their orthotics could carry them. I jogged after them.