Dead as a Scone (24 page)

Nigel added a bit of milk, stirred, and tasted. “Not bad, but I prefer mine black. What’s next?”

“A charming Lapsang Souchong.”

“Undoubtedly a pussycat of a tea.” After Nigel stopped smirking, he asked, “Another blend?”

“Some are, but this one isn’t. It’s a single tea from one garden.” Flick poured boiling water over the tea leaves.

“What’s that odor? Is something burning?” he asked.

“You can smell smoldering pine wood. Lapsang Souchong is smoked tea.”

“Good heavens.” Nigel sniffed at the pot. “How does it taste?”

“As smoky as it smells.” She filled two cups with tea.

“Strange,” Nigel said after he tasted it.

“Lapsang Souchong is an acquired taste. Some people say it has the flavor of tar.”

“I won’t argue with them.” He took another sip. “No, it’s not my cup of tea.”

“Then let’s move on to a classic Russian Caravan.” As Flick poured boiling water, Nigel said, “This one definitely is a blend. I can see pieces of many different tea leaves.”

“You’re right. It contains several Chinese and Indian teas.”

“I have a feeling I am going to like this one.”

“Most people do. It’s a hearty, flavorful tea.”

“Brilliant!” Nigel said a few minutes later. “The best tea I’ve tried so far. There’s an interesting hint of mystery lurking in the background.”

Flick grinned mischievously. “That’s because Russian Caravan contains a little Lapsang Souchong to remind you of evening campfires as the tea traveled across Asia on the backs of camels.”

“Do you think scones were served at your typical caravansary?” He broke off a piece of scone and ate it. “Quite good, if I say so myself.”

“I say so, too. All your baking is wonderful.” Flick began to brew the fourth pot of tea.

“More full-sized leaves,” Nigel said, “and a really pretty color. I’ve always liked dark reds.”

“Take a sniff.”

Nigel wafted the rising vapors toward his nose. “The smell of old gym socks.”

“This tea is called Pu’erh. The fermented tea leaves are aged—the best for more than fifty years.”

“Hence the name:
Poo-uh!”

“Try some. It has an earthy flavor.”

“True,” Nigel said as he risked a small sip. “It tastes like garden soil.”

Flick laughed. “Another acquired taste.”

“Yes, well, carry on while I eat a big piece of chocolate pound cake to get the ‘earthy flavor’ out of my mouth.”

Flick prepared the next pot of tea.

“It’s not red.” Nigel had considerable surprise in his voice.

“Most Oolong teas brew up gold or amber.”

Nigel took an enthusiastic sip. “It tastes like peaches.”

“An excellent observation. Peaches with a suggestion of chestnut.”

“I thought that a fruity taste was bad.”

“A dominant fruity taste often signals a poorly made tea. But a specific hint of peaches in an Oolong tea is good.”

“Ah. One of the mysteries of tea tasting.”

“You got it!”

Flick readied the sixth teapot. “The next tea is a top-quality Indian Darjeeling, one of the most expensive teas you can buy. Brewing time is important with Darjeeling tea. Steeping the leaves too long can make the cup overly bitter and astringent.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Nigel added a theatrical simper.

Flick began to giggle. “This is serious kitchen chemistry,” she managed to say. “Darjeeling is considered the Champaign of teas.”

She filled clean cups.

“Very nice, indeed,” Nigel said. “I can’t quite describe the aroma.”

“Floral with a hint of grapes and perhaps a touch of eucalyptus.”

“You detected all that with one sniff? My compliments to your snout.”

Flick giggled some more. Why had she believed that Nigel was a stuffy Englishman? He could be quite funny.

“Is it time for a drumroll?” he said. “I assume that you saved the best for last.”

Flick nodded. “My personal favorite. An estate-grown Assam from India.”

“It will have to be supergood to change my list,” he said. “The Russian Caravan is solidly in first place.”

She added boiling water to the seventh teapot and watched the swirling streaks of color slowly change the contents to a rich, dark amber.

“This Assam is a strong tea,” she said, “with an exceptionally malty flavor and hints of chocolate.”

“I can’t wait.”

Flick poured tea into Nigel’s cup. She peered at him as he took a big sip. He made a grimace.

“Ugh,” he said. “I’m surprised this is your favorite.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It might be okay with lots of milk and sugar, but it tastes too bitter to drink plain.”

“Bitter?”

Flick filled her cup and sniffed the tea.

She glanced at Nigel. He was lifting his cup to his lips to take another sip. “No!” she screamed. “Don’t drink it!
Your tea is poisoned!”

She slapped the cup out of his hand.

Eleven

N
igel lurched toward the sofa in Flick’s office and sank gratefully into the friendly leather cushions. The dose of syrup of ipecac he drank had worked as advertised. He had just spent five minutes in the bathroom—twenty seconds vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach and the rest of the time retching—all the while remembering vaguely that ipecac was no longer used routinely in Great Britain to expel swallowed poisons.

See what happens when you try to comfort a guilt-ridden American?

He lay down face-first on the sofa. The cool touch of old leather against his cheek felt refreshing. He could hear Flick talking on her telephone, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying because she spoke in urgent whispers. Her tone signaled that she was still worried, still a bit panicky.

He would not soon forget the fusion of dread and remorse on Flick’s face when she knocked the nasty-tasting cup of Assam tea out of his hands. Her cheeks had turned an odd shade of gray, and her voice quavered as she shouted, “Your tea is poisoned!”

Your tea is poisoned!

Four words that had set his mind racing. He thought with incredible clarity during the next several seconds. Ideas dropped into place. Scales fell away from his eyes.

Flick had been right after all. One of the trustees of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum was a poisoner.

Elspeth Hawker had been poisoned on purpose, while he had been poisoned by accident when he drank some of Flick’s private tea. The poison clearly had been meant for Flick. She was the intended next victim.

“I’ve had a brainstorm!” he had said. “This was supposed to happen to you not me.”

“I know that!” Flick made her response into a long, plaintive cry.

She had pulled him to his feet and dragged him to the elevator.

“Do you feel anything unusual?” She peered into his eyes from a distance of three inches. “Dizziness? Stomach pains? Changes in your heartbeat? Shortness of breath?”

“None of the above. I feel fine. Is that good or bad?”

Flick repeatedly punched the number 3 button with the heel of her hand. “Come on! Come on!”

The door had closed slowly. Nigel could hear the motor grinding far below as the old, slow hydraulic elevator lackadaisically lifted them to the top floor.

Once in her office, Flick had dashed to her credenza, nearly torn the lid off a tea canister, and poured the contents out on her desk with wild abandon. Nigel watched over her shoulder as she examined the broken tea leaves with a magnifying glass.

“Rats! Rats! Rats!” she bellowed. “How dim-witted can a person be? Why didn’t I spot the leaf fragments earlier?”

“What do you see?”

“Pieces of another kind of leaf mixed with the Assam tea leaves. Some chunks are light green; others are dark green.”

“That doesn’t sound like a barbiturate,” he said.

“It’s not,” she said, her voice temporarily under control. “Barbiturate is a white powder. This must be some sort of plant poison.”

“Are plant poisons dangerous?”

“Some of them are lethal.” The jumpy voice returned. “In small doses.”

“Ah.”

She lowered her magnifying glass and spun around in her swivel chair so she could look up at Nigel. “I’m not sure what to do next,” she said.

“Well, we could dial 999 and ask for the local poison control centre.”

“That’s the one thing we can’t do,” she wailed. “The poison control people will call the Kent police, who will assume that I fed you the poison.”

“Why would the police think that?”

“Because they have decided that I’m a loony American who will do anything to convince them I am right. If I fed a load of bunkum to an MI5 agent, why would I stop at poisoning you to make them take me seriously?”

“But that is not what happened. Someone else put green leaves in your tea.”

“You know that and I know that, but the cops will blame me. They don’t want to point fingers at the precious trustees. I’m the easy way out.”

“Flick—you are merely speculating. We have a good police force in Kent.”

“Right! Just like you have good cardiologists who ignore the obvious symptoms of barbiturate poisoning.”

“Now you are mixing apples and oranges.”

“My mind is made up. We can’t call the poison control centre.”

“Well, I for one would hate to see DI Pennyman cause you any additional distress. That being the case, perhaps you can start planning a suitable Church of England funeral for me. It needn’t be as elaborate as the one I arranged for Elspeth, but I would prefer more smells and bells.”

“That’s not funny, Nigel!” She sprang to her feet and pushed Nigel down into a visitor’s chair. “This is stupid. I know
exactly
what to do. What I need is in the Conservation Laboratory. Stay put.”

“Where would I go to in my present hopeless condition?”

Flick ran out of the room without answering Nigel. In quick succession, he heard two drawers opening and closing, three cupboard doors slamming, and Flick shouting, “Why can’t I find anything in this stupid laboratory when I really want it?” Several more rattles and thumps, then, “Oh, that’s right! I put it in the first-aid kit.”

She came rushing back and presented Nigel with a small bottle. “Hold your nose and drink the contents.”

He read the label. “Syrup of ipecac?”

“It will make you throw up. We might as well empty your stomach.”

“My stomach is empty. We didn’t have lunch, remember? In fact, all I’ve eaten since breakfast is a bit of scone and a few sips of tea, most of them nonpoisoned.”

“Drink the ipecac, Nigel.” She folded his hand around the bottle. “Do it for me, if not for you. I don’t want to force you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“That’s a poor choice of words to use with an Adams.”

Nigel wavered. Was ipecac called for in the present circumstances? He wasn’t sure. But how could one ignore Flick’s beseeching countenance? Or her threatening stance?

“Well, I suppose a swig or two won’t hurt,” he said.

“Good!” To Nigel’s surprise, she reached down and gave him a hug. “I have to make a phone call.”

She was still talking on her telephone when Nigel returned from the bathroom—his throat dry, a fetid taste in his mouth—and lay down on her sofa. He closed his eyes. Flick sounded anxious enough for both of them; he might as well try to relax. Maybe even take a little nap.

A gentle stirring alongside the sofa changed Nigel’s mind. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a small red snout that was alarmingly close to his own nose.

“What happened to your doggy grin?” Nigel managed to croak. “You look worried about me, too.” Cha-Cha leapt onto the sofa and curled into a reassuring furry ball at Nigel’s feet.

Flick abruptly spoke from across the room. “Good news, Nigel. We’re making definite progress.”

He raised his head. Her formerly fearful voice now surged with determination.

I don’t like the sound of that.

“I refuse to drink any more ipecac,” he said. “I would rather let those mysterious green leaves do me in.”

“You aren’t going to die.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“My friend Cory Unger assures me you won’t.” She smiled. “In fact, he wants to talk to you.”

“And Cory is—”

“A professor of toxicology at the University of Michigan who knows all about common plant poisons.”

Flick pressed a button on her telephone to switch on the speaker. She moved the phone close to the edge of her desk.

“Nigel, say hello to Cory.”

“Hello, Cory.”

Cory’s voice responded, “How do you feel, Nigel?”