Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) (3 page)

I wondered if Sarah should have even been allowed a cup of tea—giving her liquid of any kind, especially hot liquid, seemed a bad idea. She was already swaying visibly and seemed to have trouble coordinating her movements as she reached for the tea. I could see several people holding their breaths as she picked up the saucer and began wandering back across the room. Next to me, Jon released Cassie and frowned as he watched Sarah as well—no doubt thinking of the disaster if she stumbled and spilled that hot tea on any of the priceless works of art around her.

She paused halfway down the room and stopped in front of one of Cassie’s pieces. “So this is your new protégé, eh?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Jon and curling her lips back in a sneer. She raised the teacup in a taunting gesture. “I suppose I’d better drink to her!”

She took a big gulp, then turned back to the painting. I saw a waiter hastily approach her and offer a napkin, no doubt hoping to prevent any mishaps. She waved him angrily away, her action causing some of the tea to slosh out of the cup. I heard Cassie take a sharp intake of breath next to me but thankfully none of the liquid landed on her beautiful painting.

Jon’s frown deepened. “Excuse me,” he said. “I think I’d better have a word with my assistant…”

He left us and made his way across the room to where a young blonde woman in a smart sweater and pencil skirt was standing by the doorway to his office, watching Sarah anxiously. She looked up as Jon joined her and gave a quick nod at something he said, then turned and went into the office. Jon gave Sarah a last worried glance, then followed his assistant. I wondered if he might be calling the police after all.

Slowly, the hubbub of conversation filled the room again but there was an uncomfortable sense of waiting for something to happen.

Cassie turned her back on the girl and hissed to me, “She’s unbelievable! What an absolute cow! She’s obviously some spoilt rich princess used to getting her own way and now she’s having a tantrum, just because she can’t get what she wants. Poor Jon!”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Yeah, the girl was a major pain in the backside, but I found it hard to feel sorry for Jon. Maybe it was mean of me but I felt that he was well able to look after himself. I started to make some inane reply, when a cry of alarm made us spin around.

The girl—Sarah—was staggering around, flailing her arms. Her teacup smashed on the ground, spilling tea everywhere. She tripped, stumbled, then collapsed on the floor. Her arms and legs jerked spasmodically.

There was a scream from the crowd. “Oh my God! She’s having a seizure!”

Cassie and I rushed forwards, along with several others—not sure what to do, but wanting to try and help. I saw Jon come out of his office, his eyes bulging as he took in the scene in the room, whilst all around us, chaos erupted in screams and shouts.

“Someone call 999!”

“Roll her over! That’s what you’ve got to do in a seizure—so she doesn’t swallow her tongue—”

“No, no, you’ve got to restrain her—make sure she can’t hurt herself!”

“Maybe she’s got one of those pen thingies that you’re supposed to jab her with—look in her handbag—”

“Don’t be stupid, that’s just for an allergic shock—”

“Is she allergic to something?”

“Get her some water!”

“Loosen her clothing!”

I arrived at Sarah’s side just as a few others were grabbing hold of her arms and legs, and attempting to restrain her. I bent over her, trying to catch hold of her thrashing head. Then she twitched violently one last time and stiffened. Her tortured breathing faded away, to be replaced by silence.

I jerked back from her. A man next to me hesitated, then leaned over and gently rolled her onto her back. We all saw the truth before he spoke, his voice hoarse with horror.

“She’s dead.”

The police and ambulance arrived at the same time. I don’t know how many frantic phone calls to Emergency had been made by various guests but the number must have convinced the dispatcher to respond as a top priority. The paramedics marched into the gallery just a few moments before the uniformed police constables arrived at the door.

“Where’s the patient?” one of the paramedics demanded.

People stepped back and indicated the still form lying on the floor. One look at the body and the paramedics slowed their steps. Even from where they stood, they could see that there was no need for urgency any more. People turned away discreetly as the paramedics went over to attend to the body, whilst the police came into the room and began taking charge of the situation.

“Oh my God… I can’t… I can’t believe it…” said Cassie next to me.

I looked at her in surprised concern. Cassie wasn’t the fainting type but at this moment, she looked more shocked and distressed than I had ever seen her. I guess coming face to face with death can take you that way. I think I was slightly numb to it because of my own recent experiences—only a few weeks ago, I had walked into my tearoom to find a dead body sitting at one of my tables. The nightmares from that still haunted me, but I suppose in a way, I had been “vaccinated” against the horror. Although Cassie had been involved in that murder investigation, she had never encountered death so directly as this before.

“What… what do you think happened?” asked Cassie hoarsely. “Did she have a seizure or something?”

“I don’t know,” I said, although a dark suspicion was forming in my mind. I gave my head a sharp shake. I was letting my imagination run away with me; just because I had come across one murder recently didn’t mean that every death was suspicious. In any case, it wasn’t my problem. The police were here now and they would be taking over things.

And they seemed to be doing a fairly good job, herding all the guests into a corner of the gallery and securing the scene. The roar of engines outside told us that more reinforcements had arrived, and a moment later, a man in a beautifully tailored Saville Row suit strode into the room.

Tall, dark, and handsome… Devlin O’Connor fit the cliché so perfectly, it was almost a joke. I saw several women in the room eye him appreciatively and even the men straightened unconsciously, no doubt responding to that air of cool authority that Devlin exuded so effortlessly. His steely blue eyes seemed to miss nothing as he scanned the gallery. I kept my expression noncommittal and tried to ignore the sudden flip-flop of my heart as his gaze lingered on me for a moment before passing on.

He stepped into the centre of the room and spoke with quiet command. Instantly, the clamour of excited conversation died and everyone turned to listen to him. We were informed that we would all have to be detained until the police could ascertain the cause of death. There were a few grumbles from the crowd, but mostly people seemed delighted to have the opportunity to hang around and watch proceedings. I had had a taste of this sort of ghoulish curiosity with the murder in my tearoom, but it still surprised me. Maybe it was because nobody knew the girl that well, I told myself. So they had no personal emotions invested.

Devlin scanned the crowd. “Who is the owner of the gallery?”

“I am.” Jon Kelsey stepped forwards. I noticed that his urbane manner had slipped a bit and he was looking pale. “My name’s Kelsey. Jon Kelsey. I’m the host of the party.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, sir, if I may,” said Devlin. His tone was perfectly courteous but I saw Jon swallow nervously.

“Sure. We can go into my office, if you like,” he said, indicating the door at the back of the gallery.

“Do you want me to come with—?” Cassie said, starting to follow Jon.

“No, just Mr Kelsey, please,” said Devlin, his eyes drifting downwards and noting the way Cassie clung to Jon’s arm and the air of intimacy between them. He flicked his gaze to me and raised his eyebrows slightly, then he turned away and followed Jon to the inner office.

With Devlin gone, it was as if a stabilising force had been sucked from the room and people began to move restlessly, milling around and talking in hushed voices. A sandy-haired young man had followed Devlin into the gallery—I recognised him as Devlin’s sergeant—and he went through the crowd now, separating us into those who’d had contact with the girl and those who were background spectators. I found myself in the former group, directed into a corner with Cassie and several other guests, as well as a few of the serving staff.

The sergeant came over to explain that while he and the constables would be taking statements from the other group, Devlin would like to speak to anyone who had had contact with the girl himself. So we would have to wait until he was finished with Jon Kelsey and then see him one by one. I sighed, leaning against the wall and kicking off my high heels. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

My phone beeped suddenly. I pulled it out of my handbag and glanced down at the screen. It was a message from my mother:

Darling, would you like some Christmas pudding?

Huh?
My mother’s text messages were usually slightly random but this one took things to a new level. I hesitated, then texted back:

Not just now. Why?

She replied promptly:

What about memory foam slippers? They’re available in six colours. And different styles. The jester ones are adorable. And delivery is free until next weekend.

Oh God. My mother had recently discovered the world of online shopping and it was scary what she could do with a “Buy Now” button. I hurriedly texted a reply:

No thanks. Don’t wear slippers.

My mother wasn’t easily deterred. Her reply came a moment later:

They do memory foam neck pillows too. Provides marvellous support. They’ve got a special deal at the moment where you can get 10 neck pillows for the price of 5! And they deliver them straight to your door.

I was starting to panic now. I texted as fast as I could:

But Mother—I don’t want 10 neck pillows! I don’t even want one!

I felt a bit guilty and added hastily:

But thanks for the thought. Very sweet of you.

My phone beeped a second later:

I’ll just get one then, darling. Would you like it in neon pink or lime green?

AARRRGGHH. I ground my teeth, rueing the day I had got my mother an iPad and helped set her up online. My phone beeped again.

Oh dear. It says they are temporarily out of stock.

Hallelujah. Then I felt a bit sorry for her and texted:

Never mind. I’m sure they’ll bring new stock again soon. And there will be big sales for Christmas, don’t forget.

I paused, then thought I’d better let her know what was going on, in case I was detained here for ages.

I may be late home, Mother. Accident at the party. The police are here.

There was a pause, then she replied:

Oh wonderful news, darling. I’m so happy.

What?
Then I realised that she must have been responding to my previous text. I waited to see what she would say about my second message. Nothing came through. After a few more minutes of silence, I was forced to conclude that my mother obviously thought restocking neck pillows was far more important than her daughter being in an incident involving the police.

I was shoving my phone back into my handbag when a familiar booming voice spoke next to me.

“I saw who did it.”

I looked up to see Mabel Cooke standing next to me, with the other Old Biddies gathered around her. They seem to be brimming with excitement.

I looked at her in confusion. “Who did what?”

Mabel leaned close to me. “Murdered the girl.”

I stared at her. She had given voice to the dark suspicion I had been harbouring in my mind, but still, I didn’t want to accept it.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “She had a seizure.”

“Seizure, my foot,” said Mabel. “She was poisoned.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said quickly. “That’s the kind of thing that happens in novels and movies, not in real life. Besides, how could someone have poisoned her in a room full of people?”

“Oh, but it was easy!” said Florence, her eyes wide with excitement. “They put it in her tea!”

Glenda nodded, her cheeks flushed pinker than the rouge she applied so liberally. “We were right beside her when she was at the bar and we saw everything.”

“What did you see?” I demanded.

“The other girl—the one behind the bar—must have put poison in her tea.”

“The girl behind the bar…?” My voice trailed off as I glanced across to the waitress who was seated on the floor, her back against the wall, several yards away. Thankfully she seemed to be out of earshot. In any case, she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to anyone in the room. Her eyes were riveted on the dead body, her face pale.

I swung back to the Old Biddies. “Did you actually see her do it?” I demanded.

“Well, not exactly,” admitted Mabel. “But we saw
how
she could have done it.”

Ethel nodded eagerly. “Yes, it was in the sugar she added to the tea. Everyone knows how easy it is to hide poisons like arsenic in sugar.”

“And they were arguing too,” added Florence. “We heard them. They were saying quite nasty things to each other.”

“What sort of things?”

“Oh, the dead girl jeering at the waitress, making fun of her job, and the waitress replied that she wouldn’t be in that position if it wasn’t for the dead girl being such a… er… a female dog.”

“Sounds like they knew each other,” I mused.

Mabel nodded. “Oh, yes. Definitely. There was bad blood between those girls, mark my words.”

She turned suddenly as Devlin came out of the inner office and approached the group. He was followed by Jon Kelsey, looking slightly shell-shocked. Cassie rushed over to her boyfriend, whilst Devlin approached us. He turned to the waiter who had tried to offer Sarah a napkin but, before he could speak, the four Old Biddies marched up to him.

“I’ve got some information for you, young man,” said Mabel, waving a hand at him like she was hailing down a bus.

A look of irritation flashed across Devlin’s handsome face. “If you can wait your turn, Mrs Cooke, I will get to you shortly. I need to speak to some of the other witnesses first, as they may have important information for me.”

“Well, we have the most important information of all,” said Mabel, crossing her arms. “We know how the girl was murdered and the identity of the killer.”

Devlin stopped. “We’re not certain yet this is a murder investigation,” he said cautiously.

Mabel sniffed. “Then I’m saving you time, Inspector. She was murdered. And we saw how it was done—she was poisoned.”

There were gasps from the crowd and I heard several shocked whispers of: “
Poison?
”

Devlin glanced around, then gave a sigh. “I think we’d better speak in private, Mrs Cooke. This way.” He indicated the doorway to the inner office.

Mabel gave a regal nod and allowed herself and the other Old Biddies to be escorted into Jon’s office. I watched them go, wondering if Devlin would take their accusations seriously. My gaze flicked back to the waitress who had been behind the bar. I remembered the look of pure hatred I had seen on her face and I shivered.

Poison.

It seemed ludicrous. And yet… could it have been true?