English Tea Murder (11 page)

Lucy shook her head. “Just browsing.”

Much to her surprise, the little shop seemed to go on and on. She wandered through room after room, past shelves of china and old toys, tarnished silver tea sets, battered and rusty tins that once contained Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Horlicks powder. She paused to flip through a box of old prints and gazed longingly at an antique “Souvenir of Brighton” plate priced at thirty-five pounds. That was something like fifty dollars. Could she bargain for a better price? She was just reaching for the plate to examine it more closely when she heard a familiar voice.

“Lucy!”

She turned her head and saw Quentin, a book open in his hand, standing in front of a shelf packed with more old books in faded covers.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Nothing as interesting as you,” he said, making eye contact. “How did you manage to get away from the Three Musketeers?”

She laughed. “They’re looking at jewelry. There’s a big sale across the way.”

He replaced the book. “And you don’t like jewelry?”

“I like antiques more.” Lucy picked up the plate. “And it was awfully crowded in there.”

He lifted his head in surprise. “You suffer from claustrophobia?”

Lucy studied the plate. Search as she might, she couldn’t find any cracks. “A little bit.”

“Why don’t we head for the Pier, then, and get some fresh air?”

Lucy was wondering if the plate was perhaps a bit too perfect. Could it be a fake? “Sounds good,” she said, replacing the plate.

Quentin took her elbow. “Do you need to check with your friends?”

Lucy shook her head. “They know I can take care of myself.”

The clouds thinned when they left the store and began weaving their way through the crowded lanes, and for a moment or two there was enough sunshine to create shadows. Lucy could see her silhouette and Quentin’s, stretching before them on the wide sidewalk as they walked along the busy main road to the pier. From this angle, it seemed a flimsy structure, perched on stilts and extending some distance into the blue-gray water.

“It doesn’t look very safe.” Looking along the shore, Lucy could see the remains of an earlier pier that had collapsed, leaving ragged and dangerous-looking beams poking out of the gray waves.

Quentin slipped his arm around Lucy’s waist. “The British are very safety conscious. Mind the gap and all that. I’m sure it’s inspected regularly.”

They passed under the metal archway welcoming them to the pier and walked along the boardwalk, passing shacks that sold food and candy. Lucy wasn’t interested in them; she wanted to walk along the white-painted railing and take in the view. They paused for a moment, a chilly breeze ruffling their hair, looking along the beach where families were gathered in little clusters along the water. A busy road ran behind the beach, lined with substantial white hotels.

“It’s a whole different attitude,” said Lucy, thinking of the shingle-style Queen Victoria Inn in Tinker’s Cove where guests lingered in rocking chairs to enjoy the view. “They don’t have porches.”

“No wonder,” said Quentin, drawing her closer as the sun again disappeared and a light drizzle began to fall. “It’s freezing here.”

Lucy pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. Her interest was caught by a pair of elderly women, dressed as if for church in suits and heels, walking arm in arm along the pier. “Look at them, they’re wearing their best bib and tucker.”

Quentin touched her chin. “That’s what I love about you, Lucy.
Bib and tucker.
You really have a way with words.”

Lucy took a step backward, uncomfortable with the direction this was going and resumed walking. “People here do seem to dress more formally than we do in America. I haven’t seen anybody in a tracksuit.”

Quentin fell into step beside her. “I got into a conversation with a woman at Hampton Court. We were sitting on the same bench, in the garden. She was asking about our itinerary, and when I told her we were going to Brighton, she began to reminisce about childhood family excursions. She said everyone dressed up to go to the seaside; they wore their best clothes—the men even wore suits. They’d sit there on the shingle—that’s what they call the beach—and spread out a picnic. If it was hot, the men would take off their shoes and socks and roll up their trousers to wade in the water. If it was sunny, they’d knot their handkerchiefs to make little hats to protect their heads.” He paused, holding the door for her as they entered an enormous enclosed arcade filled with ringing and buzzing games. “It was a different world.”

The arcade was crowded with people who had been driven inside by the weather, and Lucy was jostled by a group of laughing teens. “It’s a bit—”

“I know.” Quentin took her elbow. “Claustrophobic. But I see light ahead.”

They made their way past the pinball machines and barkers and emerged onto the far end of the pier near the merry-go-round. Even in this weather they could hear screams from thrill seekers on the roller coaster. A refreshment area offered shelter from the weather behind a wall of glass, and that’s where Lucy spotted her two ladies, each enjoying a glass of beer.

“That place seems respectable enough.” Quentin’s smile was teasing.

“I am a married lady and a mother of four,” Lucy reminded him. “I have my reputation to consider.”

Quentin opened the door for her. “And how is the family?”

Lucy’s thoughts immediately turned to Elizabeth. “My oldest daughter—she’s an RA at Chamberlain College—is in trouble with the new dean.”

Quentin was holding a chair for her. “I know from experience that deans, especially new ones, can be very annoying.”

Lucy laughed and sat down. Quentin took the opposite chair, and she studied his face. It was a nice face, she decided, and you couldn’t see the bald spot from this angle. He had laugh lines spreading from his eyes, his smile was easy, and he had a good sense of humor. Lucy had to admit she was finding it hard to resist him.

Chapter Eleven

“W
inchester seems to take better care of its students than Chamberlain,” she said, smiling.

He furrowed his brow. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, Autumn and Jennifer told me they’re in a support group to help freshmen adjust to college life.”

Quentin laughed. “Is that what they call it?”

Lucy gave him a sideways look. “Isn’t that what it is?”

“Not quite.” Quentin raised a hand, signaling the waiter. “It’s more of a last-ditch effort by the college to avoid expelling them.”

Lucy thought this over as the waiter approached to take their order.

“A pint of bitter for me,” said Quentin.

Lucy had spotted an advertising poster that caught her interest. “What’s shandy?”

“It’s a mix of lemonade and beer.” Seeing her doubtful expression, he continued. “It’s quite good. Ladies enjoy it.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound—I’ll try it,” said Lucy, causing Quentin to grin. “I’ve got a million of them.” She paused, gazing out at the flat gray expanse of water. “So what exactly is this program?”

“It’s an intensive group therapy session for students who are considered high risk. I don’t know the exact circumstances that led to their enrollment in the program, but”—he leaned across the table—“I have heard the campus scuttlebutt.”

“Ah!” Lucy jabbed a finger in the air. “That’s one for you: scuttlebutt.”

Quentin waited a moment for the waiter to place their drinks on the table, then raised his thumbprint mug in a toast. Lucy raised her glass, too, and tapped his. “Here’s to kindred spirits,” he said.

That seemed harmless enough, thought Lucy. “Kindred spirits.” She took a cautious sip of her drink and found it exactly as described, fizzy and lemony, with a beerish tang. It was good. “So what’s the scuttlebutt on these kids?”

“I don’t know if there’s any truth to these stories or not—you know what a college campus is like. It’s a small, enclosed community and people talk about each other.”

“Just like Tinker’s Cove,” said Lucy.

“Exactly. Sometimes these rumors are true and sometimes they’re not. You have to take them with a grain of salt. But I do happen to know for a fact that Autumn did assault her roommate, because the girl came to me to complain covered with scratches and a black eye.”

“Oh my,” said Lucy, reaching for her glass.

“Yeah.” Quentin nodded. “The upshot of that was they both got single rooms and Autumn got sent to the group.”

“What about Jennifer?”

“I don’t actually know but I’m guessing anorexia and anxiety. I think she has real mental health issues.”

“It’s too bad. She’s such a pretty little thing. She ought to be enjoying her youth.”

Quentin was thoughtful. “The longer I’ve been teaching, the more I’ve come to understand that very few kids do enjoy their youth. It’s something we look back on with nostalgia, thinking only that we had a full head of hair or a flat stomach and forgetting how miserable we really were.”

“You have a point. But what about Will? He’s a handsome kid and seems to be having a pretty good time.”

“Too good.” Quentin had drained his pint and was signaling for another. “He’s a real party boy. He not only got himself put on academic probation because of his grades but he also got arrested for drunk driving. And there’s a nasty rumor about a monkey—I don’t know the details. He’s this close”—Quentin almost pressed his thumb and forefinger together—“to getting kicked out.”

“No wonder his mother doesn’t want to let him out of her sight,” said Lucy.

“He’s been doing better.” Quentin paused as the waiter delivered the fresh pint and took away the empty one. “And then there’s Caroline. Kids on campus call her the Tuber.”

“That’s cruel.” Lucy suspected that one of the attractions of teaching was that it allowed Quentin to indulge an unpleasant streak of immaturity.

“You’re right. We don’t really know what she’s like. The poor girl is obviously taking some powerful psychotropic drugs. She may look like a zombie, but they seem to be getting her through the days.”

Quentin’s explanation made a lot of sense to Lucy. No wonder Caroline seemed so subdued, and her parents’ clinging concern suddenly made sense.

“It’s a shame that all four signed up for this trip,” continued Quentin, shifting his gaze away from her and studying the coaster under his beer.

“How so?”

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Once the word got out that they were coming, nobody else wanted to sign up. George almost had to cancel the whole thing. Then Pam got you guys to come and that gave him a dozen—just enough people to make it worthwhile.” He nodded. “These trips usually attract about thirty or forty people.”

Lucy was stunned. “You mean we’re responsible? That poor George would have been home in Tinker’s Cove and most probably wouldn’t have had an allergy attack or if he did would have gotten treatment in time?”

Quentin’s warm hand covered hers. “Don’t be silly. When your time’s up, it’s up.”

Lucy snatched her hand away. “Not at all. The rescue squad is terrific. We get grateful letters all the time at the
Pennysaver.
They could have saved him.”

“If they’d been called in time, but George was stubborn. He wouldn’t have allowed it. And believe me, he died doing what he loved. If he’d had his choice, I’m sure he would rather have died exactly the way he did, en route to his beloved England.”

Lucy didn’t agree. She remembered the terrified, frantic expression on George’s face when he reached out to her for help on the plane. He was fighting for every breath; he was fighting for his life. Lucy also had had another thought, one that troubled her for some time. She thought of the awkward silences whenever his name was mentioned, the inappropriate bursts of laughter, and the palpable sense of relief she’d noticed in the breakfast room after Emma’s departure.

“You know, for somebody who went to so much trouble for others, George doesn’t seem to have been very popular with the folks on this tour. There seems a real absence of, well, I don’t know, compassion, for lack of a better word. Have you noticed?”

“Can’t say I have,” he said, draining his mug and pushing his chair back. “Let’s see what’s at the end of the pier.”

Lucy was agreeable. The pub was musty from its humid location on the pier, and she was ready for some fresh air. “Good idea.”

She was thoughtful as they went outside and wandered past the merry-go-round and other attractions. The rattling roller coaster took up the entire end of the pier, so there was no view of the sea, but there was plenty of activity to interest a people-watcher like Lucy: moms comforting cranky babies, boyfriends teasing girlfriends and attempting to lure them onto the thrill rides, dads with toddlers perched on their shoulders, a couple of old duffers contentedly puffing away on stinky cigars that were probably forbidden at home.

Watching all these people enjoying themselves, Lucy pondered Quentin’s assertion that George had died the way “he would have wanted.” She’d often heard similar phrases in the course of her work as a reporter interviewing family members for obituaries. “Well, Mom is probably happier now she’s with Dad,” a daughter would say, and Lucy would remember a merry widow who enjoyed her volunteer job at the historical society and her weekly bridge game. Or “His suffering is over—he never did get used to that titanium hip,” and Lucy would remember the enthusiastic bowler she’d interviewed for a story on the senior bowling league.

It was natural enough, she supposed. People looked for comfort when confronted with the inevitability of death; they were looking for a bright side. Some people even believed in heaven and an afterlife of perfect happiness, whatever that was. Personally, Lucy found the promises of heavenly reunions somewhat unnerving—would she encounter her mother before or after the Alzheimer’s took over? If before, she would have to endure an eternity of carping criticism; if after, a sweeter, confused stranger.

“You’re miles away,” said Quentin as they propped their arms on the railing and gazed at the choppy gray water. The wind had picked up and had blown a lock of hair across her face. He gently smoothed it away and leaned toward her, and she suddenly realized he was going to kiss her.

“I guess we should head back,” she said, pulling away and turning to go, but the way past the merry-go-round was suddenly blocked by a crew of EMTs rushing toward the roller coaster. Behind them the crowd surged forward, eager to see what all the fuss was about. As the crowd pressed around her, Lucy was jostled and Quentin positioned himself protectively, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. For once Lucy didn’t resist, but strained onto her tiptoes, trying to see what was happening.

The rescue crew, carrying cases of equipment and pushing a wheeled stretcher, had disappeared into an area beneath the roller coaster that was blocked from public access.

“Bet it’s a jumper,” said a woman with frizzy, bleached blond hair.

“A jumper?” Lucy leaned over the railing and spotted one of the rescuers descending a ladder fixed to one of the supporting pilings beneath the pier. Leaning a bit farther, she saw, or thought she saw, a face beneath the surface of the water and perhaps a glimpse of a shoulder.

Then, as she watched, a rescue swimmer in a wet suit lowered himself from a ladder into the water and began swimming toward the spot where she’d seen the face, and another rescuer quickly followed. When he was in the water, others on the pier began lowering a metal basket equipped with floats on either side. Lucy could only imagine how cold the water must be, even with the wet suits, and was struck by the rescuers’ selfless efforts to save the jumper.

It was hushed on the pier as the people along the railing strained to watch and pass along the rescuers’ progress to the others. “ ’E’s got ’er now!” declared someone with a Cockney accent, and Lucy saw the swimmer had seized the jumper in the familiar cross-chest hold she’d learned herself in a Red Cross lifesaving class when she was a teen. “They’re puttin’ ’er in the basket,” announced the Cockney. “Oops, bit of a slip there.”

The crowd gasped as the limp, plump body rolled out of the basket, only to be seized once again by the rescuers. This time they were successful, and the crew atop the pier began raising the basket, straining against its weight. As soon as the victim was hoisted onto the pier, one of the EMTs immediately began CPR. The two rescuers who’d gone into the water were wrapped in blankets and given hot drinks; they joined the crowd watching the EMTs attempt to revive the girl. Lucy stared at a pair of plump, hairless white legs. One chubby foot was bare, the other covered with an ugly white running shoe. A chunky, clumsy shoe that somehow seemed familiar.

She reached for Quentin’s sleeve. “Could that be Caroline?”

His cheeks, rosy from the alcohol, suddenly drained of color. “Ohmigod.”

“She’s comin’ ’round.” The word spread through the crowd as Quentin began pushing his way forward.

“Hey, there!” protested one woman. “We were here first!”

For a moment Lucy thought of the crowds that had once flocked to Tower Hill to witness the gruesome public executions that took place there, and she stepped back against the railing. What was she doing here? Why had she joined this group of ghouls?

“I think I may know the victim,” said Quentin. “Please let me through.”

The ghouls were suddenly transformed into caring, concerned citizens. “Let ’im through,” they were saying, stepping aside. “ ’E says ’e knows ’er.”

Stepping forward, Lucy grabbed the back of Quentin’s jacket and followed him through the crowd until they were directly behind the EMTs gathered around the victim. Quentin tapped one on the shoulder, and when he turned around, Lucy got a good look at the girl’s face. It was round and somewhat bloated with strands of wet brownish red hair clinging to her forehead, but it was unmistakably Caroline Smith.

“I have information about the victim,” said Quentin.

“Come with me,” said a policeman, pulling out a notebook. While Quentin supplied Caroline’s particulars, Lucy watched as an oxygen mask was slipped over her face and the crew of rescuers lifted the wire basket onto a gurney and began wheeling it through the crowd. Quentin followed, answering the officer’s questions as he went, and Lucy tagged along, occasionally supplying a bit of information.

An ambulance was waiting when they emerged from the enclosed arcade, and Caroline was quickly bundled inside.

“I’ll have to go with her.” Quentin didn’t look happy about it. “You must find her parents and tell them what happened.”

“Where are you taking her? They’ll want to go to the hospital.”

“Brighton General, ma’am.” The EMT closed one of the rear doors.

“But how will you get back to London?”

“I don’t know. The train . . .” Quentin paused, realizing the EMT was waiting impatiently for him to get into the ambulance. “I’ve gotta go. You can tell the others what’s happened, get them back to the hotel.”

Then he was inside and the second door slammed shut. The ambulance took off, siren wailing and lights flashing. Lucy stood watching it leave and wondering how she was ever going to find Tom and Ann in this crowded holiday town. Where would they be? Were they frantically looking for Caroline? Or had they agreed to go their separate ways, planning to meet later? She had no idea.

Lucy retraced her steps along the pier, realizing it gave her a good vantage point from which to search the beach. She went from one side to the other, standing at the railing and looking down at the handful of people scattered on the pebbly beach. They were mostly walkers, hardy types, striding along the water’s edge to take the air, but some were huddled in little groups with blankets held over their heads to ward off the drizzle. She tried to remember what the Smiths were wearing and failed completely. No, she reminded herself, they were traveling and were probably wearing the same jackets they’d worn to the museum. She concentrated hard, trying to remember how they’d looked in the stairwell at the V&A.

Ann had been in brown, she remembered. Brown pants and a beige sweater. No good, she must have worn a jacket of some sort today. But what about Tom? Leather? A black leather jacket? Yes. So she should keep her eyes peeled for a stocky man in a black leather jacket and a beigy brownish woman.