Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) (12 page)

And in a place like Oxford, I thought, it wouldn’t be hard to find someone with that kind of knowledge. A fellow student in the University, a helpful tutor, an academic colleague… I found myself wondering if Fiona Stanley had any friends who were chemistry students. As an artist, she would certainly have easy access to Prussian Blue… And what about Jon Kelsey? I thought suddenly of his darkroom above his gallery—a quiet, private place where he would have access to cyanide compounds and peace and privacy to extract the poison at will…

I roused myself as I realised that the professor was talking again, answering Seth’s question about a book. I remembered the original reason my friend had wanted to come see his old tutor and decided to leave them to their discussion.

I smiled at the professor. “Thank you so much, Professor Christophe, for a really fascinating talk.”

“Oh, any time, my dear, any time. My door is always open.” He took my hand again and patted it in an avuncular manner. “And I hope they solve this case quickly. Of course, with modern forensic science, it is usually much easier to determine the toxins used and to identify them—it is one reason why poisoning has fallen so out of favour as a choice of murder weapon. Plus, with the medical advances and improved care these days, it is difficult to guarantee death even with the most lethal of poisons. But still, it can take time for the toxicology results to confirm things and by then…”

His blue eyes turned serious. “It takes a particularly cold-blooded murderer to choose poison. I do hope the police catch him soon because he could be very dangerous indeed…”

The talk with Professor Christophe left me vaguely disturbed and preoccupied all through the evening. I hardly took in anything my mother said at dinner as she rattled on about some “marvellous addition” to the tearoom and a pair of wellingtons for my father that she had ordered online.

After supper, I helped myself to some chocolate mints from the pantry and went up to my bedroom, intending to curl up in bed with a mindless thriller novel for a few hours. Muesli greeted me with a happy
chirrup
and hopped eagerly onto the bed with me. She climbed into my lap, padded about in a circle, and settled herself in such a way so that her furry bum blocked my view of the page.

I sighed.
Great. Remind me again why I adopted a cat?

When I first brought Muesli home, I had optimistically thought that I could keep her off my bed and in her own section of the bedroom—I guess that showed how little I knew about felines. Muesli had taken one look at the expensive, luxurious cat bed I had bought from the pet store and turned her little pink nose up in disdain. Then she had jumped on my bed with alacrity and claimed her spot next to my pillow.

To be honest, I didn’t mind her sleeping with me that much—my bed was wide enough to accommodate both of us—but the problem was that Muesli liked to snooze at the bottom of the bed, with her body draped across my ankles. It was like sleeping pinned down by a hot, furry leg shackle and I found myself struggling to turn over in the night. It drove me crazy. Did all cat owners live in this kind of perpetual helpless frustration?

I shifted now so that I could see the book around the side of Muesli’s furry bum and tried to focus my mind on the story. But I found it hard to concentrate. Bits of the conversation with Professor Christophe kept drifting through my mind. Finally, I yawned and gave up. I closed the book and got ready for bed. My tearoom would be re-opening for the new week tomorrow and I had to be there bright and early, ready to tackle the new day.

I was in a maze, trying to find Cassie. I could hear her screaming for help but I didn’t know how to reach her. Everywhere I turned there were dead ends and blind alleys, and the floor of the maze was littered with bottles marked “Poison”. I rounded a corner and came across my mother having afternoon tea with Jon Kelsey.

“Where’s Cassie? Have you seen Cassie?” I demanded.

They shook their heads and smiled at me. My mother cut a slice of cake and put it on a plate in front of Jon, who offered me a cup of tea.

“Don’t drink that—it’s poisonous!” cried Fiona Stanley, springing out of nowhere.

I turned and ran on, passing the Old Biddies, who were pruning roses growing out of the hedge.

“Have you seen Cassie?” I asked desperately.

“No, dear, but smell these roses—aren’t they lovely? They don’t smell of roses at all—they smell of almonds…”

“Gemma!”

I turned at the sound of Devlin’s voice. Where was he? I couldn’t see him. I ran blindly, my hands outstretched. There was a figure ahead—was it Devlin? I tripped and stumbled, and then I was falling down—down—down—

RRRRRRRING!

I gasped and sat up in bed, clutching my chest, my heart pounding.

It was a dream, I realised shakily. A nightmare. It had been so vivid. I shivered as I reached across and shut off my alarm, then glanced towards my windows. Pale sunlight was seeping between the crack in the curtains, and the clock showed that it was time to get up and get ready for work. I staggered to the bathroom and after a brisk, hot shower, came back to my room feeling a lot more human.

As I was drying my hair, I glanced down at my bedside table and paused. I seemed to remember that there had been two chocolates left over last night. There was only one now. I frowned, then my heart skipped a beat. Had Muesli eaten it? I knew that chocolates were poisonous to dogs and I supposed it was the same for cats. Muesli had never seemed to show any interest in chocolate, but what if she had decided to sample some this time? I wanted to kick myself for leaving the chocolates there for her to find—I had been so preoccupied last night that I hadn’t been thinking…

I looked frantically around the room. Where was Muesli? Wouldn’t she normally be winding herself around my legs by now, loudly demanding her breakfast? I found her curled up in the folds of my blanket, her eyes squeezed shut. Was she just extra sleepy this morning or was there something wrong with her? I felt a lurch of fear. The thought of losing the little cat was terrifying. I put a gentle hand on her head.

“Muesli? Are you okay, sweetie?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me, but didn’t talk back as she would have normally done. I threw on some clothes, then dashed downstairs.

“Mother!” I burst into the kitchen, where my mother was pouring out some cereal. “I need to rush Muesli to the vet! I think she’s eaten some chocolate and that’s really poisonous to cats—”

“Oh my goodness,” my mother cried, her face creasing in concern. “Yes, you must take her instantly!”

She sounded far more alarmed than I had expected. I hadn’t thought she liked Muesli that much, but it seemed that my little cat had wormed her way into my mother’s heart too.

“Where are you going to take her, darling?” asked my mother.

I hesitated, then remembered Mrs Waltham’s recommendation. “There’s a vet around the corner. Remember—Mrs Waltham said her housekeeper took her dog there? The North Oxford Veterinary Surgery.” I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I hope they’ll be open.”

I started to turn away, then I paused in horror. “Oh no—what about the tearoom? Cassie’s still away in Italy. Who’s going to serve the customers?”

“Now, don’t you worry, darling,” my mother said reassuringly. “I’m sure Mabel Cooke and her friends would be delighted to help out again. They enjoyed it so much last Sunday. I’ll give them a ring.” She patted my hand. “You run along and take Muesli to the vet. That’s the most important thing now.”

I started to argue, then changed my mind. She was right. Ten minutes later, I was running up the front steps of the veterinary clinic. Thank goodness they opened early.

“Oh… chocolate poisoning, do you say?” said the vet nurse. She looked at the cat carrier a bit sceptically.

I followed her gaze and had to admit that I was feeling slightly sceptical myself. Muesli looked perfectly fine, peering through the bars of her carrier, her eyes wide and curious.

“Has she shown any symptoms?”

“I don’t know—what are the symptoms?”

“Vomiting, diarrhoea, rapid breathing, rigid muscles, increased heart rate and body temperature—and then seizures, weakness, and coma, in the advanced stages…”

She looked again at Muesli who was demonstrating a perfect lack of all those symptoms. “Er… she doesn’t seem to be in too much distress.”

“No,” I agreed, feeling stupid now. “She seems perfectly fine but—”

“Well, chocolate isn’t something you want to take a chance with,” said the vet nurse. “In case there’s a delayed onset reaction or something.” She indicated the waiting area. “Dr Baxter is just seeing his first patient now, but if you take a seat, I’ll see if he can squeeze you in before his next consult.”

I nodded and went to the waiting area. There was only one other person there: a middle-aged woman with a small Jack Russell Terrier. The dog stiffened as we approached. He growled, then launched himself at the cat carrier with a volley of barking. I flinched backwards, shocked at how such a tiny dog could be so aggressive, but to my even greater shock, Muesli puffed up to three times her normal size and launched herself, hissing and spitting, at the dog in return.

“Whoa!” I shouted as the cat carrier jerked in my hands.

The Jack Russell lunged again, dragging his hapless owner out of her chair towards us.

“Aaaarrgghh!” the woman cried, lurching across the room after him.

The dog rushed up to the carrier and shoved his snout against the bars, snarling and yelling at the top of his lungs. Muesli hissed and spat and yelled right back.

I stumbled backwards. I didn’t know which to be more scared of: the dog or the demon in my cat carrier. Who would have known that such a sweet little cat could turn into such a ferocious feline? I would have thought that Muesli was the type to run screaming from dogs. Instead, she stuck a paw out through the bars of her carrier and swiped the Jack Russell across the face, causing him to yelp and jerk back, pawing his nose.

“Bambi!” cried the woman.

Bambi? She’d named her psycho rat terrier “Bambi”?

Okay, to be fair, Muesli wasn’t exactly living up to her name of a healthy Swiss cereal either. And I thought the Swiss were supposed to be neutral? The terrier retreated rapidly behind his owner’s ankles and peered out at Muesli. He gave a half-hearted growl, but didn’t dare come closer again.

“I’m so sorry,” I said hastily to the other woman. “I had no idea that she could be so… I think she might have had some chocolate and maybe she’s not feeling quite herself… She’s normally a really sweet, affectionate cat…”

My really sweet affectionate cat narrowed her eyes and gave another hiss for good measure, then she turned her back on the dog and began to wash her face.

The other woman chuckled suddenly. “I’ve not seen Bambi bested by a cat before, and by such a wee thing too.” She peered at Muesli in the carrier. “Did you say she had been poisoned?”

I looked at Muesli doubtfully. I was really beginning to wonder if I had overreacted this morning. “I thought so—I thought she might have eaten some chocolate mints I left on my bedside table.”

“Ah well, you can’t be too careful with chocolate. Can be fatal, you know. Better safe than sorry.” She sat down companionably next to me, the Jack Russell keeping carefully to her other side, a safe distance from Muesli.

“Yeah, I was really glad to have the vet so near so I could bring her straight in,” I said.

The other woman looked at me thoughtfully. “I know you.”

I looked at her in surprise. “You do?”

“Yes, seen you come and go—your parents have the house next to my old employer.”

“Oh…” I looked at her as understanding dawned. “Are you…?”

She smiled. “I’m Nell. Nell Hicks, the Walthams’ old housekeeper.”

“Oh! I’m here because of you!” I saw the look of puzzlement on Nell Hicks’s face and quickly amended, “Well, not because of you directly; what I mean is—it was your recommendation that helped me find this vet. I only adopted Muesli recently, you see. Mrs Waltham gave me this clinic’s name. She said you brought your dog here.”

Nell’s face softened. “How is Mrs Waltham doing? Nice lady. I heard about what happened to Sarah,” she added with a grim look. “Rang Mrs Waltham up to give her my condolences yesterday.”

“Yes, I think it’s all been a bit of a shock to her. Although… Sarah isn’t actually her daughter, I understand? And I don’t think they were close?”

Nell guffawed. “Not close at all. Not that poor Mrs Waltham didn’t try, I tell you. But that Sarah… well, she never gave her step-mum a chance. Was right nasty to her at times. That woman was a saint to put up with it. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but it’s God’s honest truth. I’ve known Sarah for years, since her teens, and she’s always been—excuse my language—an absolute cow.”

“Er, yes… I’ve spoken to a few people who knew Sarah and it seems that she could be a bit… um… difficult,” I said diplomatically.

“Difficult?” Nell Hicks slapped her thigh and laughed, but it was not a nice laugh. “A real bit—oh, I beg your pardon, a real madam, that’s what she is! Always wanting everything her own way. And she can be real vindictive if she doesn’t get what she wants or she thinks you’ve crossed her.” Her face darkened and her mouth twisted. “That’s what happened to me.”

I looked at her curiously. I wasn’t sure if I should pry but Nell seemed very keen to talk. “You mean, you made her angry?” I said.

Nell nodded. “I found a stash of marijuana hidden in her room and I went and told her father about it.”

“Sarah was doing drugs?”

“Well, not serious drugs, mind you. Not cocaine or heroin or anything like that. Just marijuana. And just occasional, like, I think. But I knew her father wouldn’t be happy about it and I thought he ought to know. It’s his house, isn’t it? And she’s still living under his roof. Well! Threw a fit, she did, when she found out—called me an interfering old witch. And me almost a member of the family! Or at least, I thought I was,” she said bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when Mr Waltham went into hospital for his operation, Sarah turned around and dismissed me. Just like that. Told me to pack my things and get out. Ten years of service I gave that family!” Nell said angrily.

“But… didn’t Mrs Waltham stop her? I mean, she’s the mistress of the house—”

Nell gave a cynical laugh. “Mistress in name only. Sarah’s the real mistress there. And, of course, her father indulges her in everything.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t believe that I found myself out of the job, just like that! And they were such good employers. Mr Waltham always gave me a generous bonus each Christmas—we’re going to have to do without this year,” she said forlornly, reaching down to rub the Jack Russell’s ears.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmured, thinking to myself that here again was someone who had good reason to want to harm Sarah. The girl seemed to make enemies wherever she went!

I glanced sideways at Nell Hicks. I couldn’t quite see this friendly, homely woman resorting to murder, though. Especially cold-blooded murder through poisoning. But then, what did I know? People could do all sorts of things when they were really angry…

The vet came out of his consult room and into the waiting area—a kindly-looking, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and ruddy cheeks. He smiled at Nell and gave Bambi a pat, then asked if she wouldn’t mind if he took a look at Muesli first.

Nell waved her hands. “Sure, sure—we’re in no hurry, are we, Bambi?” She nodded at me. “Nice chatting with you, miss.”

I smiled and returned the sentiment while Muesli gave Bambi a parting hiss before I lugged her cat carrier away. I followed the vet down the hallway into the consult room and set the carrier on the examination table. He opened the carrier door and Muesli strutted out, looking around with great interest.

“So what seems to be the matter with Muesli?”

Feeling even more sheepish now, I recounted the story of the missing chocolates from my bedside table. “But maybe I was wrong,” I said as I finished my story. “I mean, she looks so well now—maybe I was just panicking for nothing.”

“No, you did the right thing,” said the vet. He picked Muesli up and placed her in front of him, and gently began giving her the once-over.

“Hmm… heart rate is slightly elevated,” he commented as he listened to her chest with the stethoscope. “But that might be simply due to the excitement of coming in here.”

“And she had a bit of a… er… tiff with Bambi.”

“Ah.” The vet smiled. “Well, just to be on the safe side, I think we’ll keep her in for observation overnight, if you’re happy with that? That way, if she does start to deteriorate, the vet nurses will be on hand to give her emergency treatment.”

“Thanks, that sounds like a good idea,” I said. “I wouldn’t be able to pick her up until tomorrow evening though—would that be a problem?

“No, not at all. We’ll make sure that she’s comfortable—and we’ll keep her well away from any dogs,” he said with a grin.

I raced to Meadowford-on-Smythe as fast as my legs could pedal, worried about what was happening at the tearoom with neither me nor Cassie there to oversee things. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. I rushed in the door to find the place a cosy haven of happy conversation and contented munching, accompanied by the soft clink of china and the delicious smell of fresh baking. The four Old Biddies were shuffling from table to table, smiling and chatting and serving tea and cakes with a practised ease. You would have thought that they’d run a tearoom their whole life! They were wearing the matching new aprons my mother had ordered—I winced again at the message and image on the front—and they looked quite adorable with their fluffy white hair and spectacles perched on the ends of their noses, almost like the stereotype image of a sweet Mrs Claus.

If only people realised how deceiving looks could be…

“Gemma, dear! How nice to see you…” Glenda hurried towards me, her pretty face wrinkled in a welcoming smile.

“I can’t believe it… Everything looks wonderful…” I said inanely.

Glenda gave a tinkling laugh. “Did you think that we wouldn’t be able to handle things just because we’re in our eighties? We were running households when you were still in nappies, you know.”

I gave her a sheepish smile. “I know, Glenda. I guess it’s the arrogance of youth—always thinking that no one else has done it before us.”

Florence came over and hustled me into a chair behind the reception counter, and placed a hot cup of tea and a plate with a wedge of cake in front of me. Florence loved her food, as evidenced by her rotund shape, and when she wasn’t eating, her next greatest enjoyment was getting other people to eat. She pointed eagerly to the cake now.

“You must try some—it’s that new recipe of your mother’s. Velvet Cheesecake. It is absolutely divine. Everybody is ordering it.”

I vaguely remembered my mother telling me about this addition to the menu and Florence also mentioning it the other day. She said we had sold out of it, hadn’t she? I really should have been paying more attention, I thought guiltily. Some tearoom owner I was turning out to be! I should have noticed as soon as something was good for business and been quick to turn it into an opportunity.

Now I looked down at the plate in front of me with interest. It wasn’t an elaborate cheesecake—the top was covered with a smooth layer of cream cheese and sour cream, decorated only with a cluster of raspberries and blueberries, their rich pinks and deep purples showing vividly against the snowy white. I picked up the fork and carefully cut off a section, feeling the fork bite down through the crunchy biscuit base, and then put it in my mouth. It was heavenly—creamy and sweet, with just a touch of tangy zest, and the juicy flavours of the berries mingling with the buttery sweetness of the base.

“This is delicious!” I said.

Florence beamed. “It’s our bestseller. Everyone has been ordering it and asking for more. Your mother says it was an old recipe of your grandmother’s and it’s incredibly simple to make.”

“Maybe we should make it a permanent addition to the menu,” I said.

“Oh, your mother would love that! It would make her very happy,” Florence said eagerly.

I felt a stab of guilt, remembering my previous offhand attitude towards my mother’s suggestions for the menu. Maybe I had been resistant and stubborn for no good reason, other than the fact that I was so paranoid about my mother “interfering with my life”, and had been unwilling to listen properly to anything she had to say. It couldn’t have been easy for her to have all her helpful suggestions constantly met with antagonism. In fact—although she had been initially dismissive of my tearoom—since she came on board, she had embraced my business whole-heartedly, worked tirelessly in the kitchen, and had been nothing but supportive. Yes, she could be (incredibly!) frustrating but she did mean well. I felt suddenly ashamed that I hadn’t been nicer to her.

I’ll pop into the kitchen later and tell her how much I loved her cheesecake and that I would make it a special on the menu
, I decided.

“How is little Muesli? Your mother was telling us that she was poisoned?” said Ethel, coming to join us at the counter.

I sighed. “I think it was probably just a false alarm. I thought she might have eaten some chocolate but she seems far too well for that. In fact, she nearly took a chunk out of a dog she met in the waiting room.”

Ethel chuckled. “Never underestimate cats, especially the little ones,” she said. “But it was good that you took her to the vet. Better safe than sorry. You’d never forgive yourself if she had got ill and you hadn’t reacted in time.”

“Yeah, I guess. And as it turned out, it was a lucky coincidence: I met the Walthams’ old housekeeper, Nell Hicks. It was due to her recommendation that I went to that vet, actually. Mrs Waltham told me about Nell taking her own dog there.”

“The Walthams’ housekeeper?” Florence frowned.

I looked at her. “Yes, why? Do you know her?”

“No… but do you know… I have a feeling I heard of her recently. Now, where had I heard her mentioned…?” Florence gazed off into space.

“So is Muesli all right then?” Ethel said.

“They’re keeping her overnight for observation,” I said. “But I have a feeling that the only thing that will need emergency treatment when I pick her up tomorrow will be my wallet.” I made a grimace.

“I know! I just remembered!” Florence burst out suddenly. “My niece, Delia, who’s a nurse up at the hospital… she mentioned seeing the Walthams’ housekeeper… She was chattering about it because she’d read about the murder in the papers and she was really excited. She said she’d seen Sarah on Saturday just before the party, only a few hours before she was murdered!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Delia works in the ICU and she was on duty when Sarah came in to visit her father. Caused a bit of a scene, apparently. Tried to throw her weight around, but the Ward Sister would have none of it. Anyway, they were about to come to blows and the doctor was there and it was ever so embarrassing… and then the Walthams’ housekeeper arrived and poured oil on troubled waters.”

“Really?” I said in surprise. From the conversation I had had with Nell Hicks, I wouldn’t have expected her to want to help placate Sarah—in fact, I would have expected her to join the lynch mob against the girl!

“Are you sure it
was
the Walthams’ old housekeeper that Delia saw?”

Florence nodded. “Yes, Delia said she’d made some of Sarah’s favourite shortbread biscuits. That was what had helped to distract Sarah and calm her down. Nell gave her a whole tin, which she said was especially baked for her.”

I was even more astonished. Nell Hicks had sounded more like she would poison Sarah than bake the girl some of her favourite shortbread bisc—

I drew a sharp breath.

Nell Hicks had sounded more like she would poison Sarah…

Maybe that was exactly what the Walthams’ old housekeeper had done? Made Sarah Waltham a gift of some poisonous shortbread?