English Tea Murder (13 page)

“Look, that’s got nothing to do with me!” The rings and studs that dotted Autumn’s face seemed to be bristling. “And just for the record, I had nothing to do with that creepy old professor’s death either. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to knock the medicine thing out of his hand, but it probably wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. He was really old.”

“Accidents happen,” said Lucy, hoping to calm Autumn’s temper. She actually thought Autumn and Jennifer had behaved badly on the plane. Their reckless behavior had certainly contributed to Temple’s death, even if it hadn’t caused it.

“Jennifer had the peanuts, you know.” Autumn’s tone was self-righteous. “How was she supposed to know he had a peanut allergy?”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Not only had they been dancing around in their seats, but they’d been shaking that bag of trail mix, spreading peanut dust in the air. “You should have known better.”

“Well, I know now.” Autumn practically spat out the words. “But I didn’t know then. We were just excited about the trip and having a good time.”

Lucy thought things were getting a little intense. It was time to change the subject. “Did you enjoy Brighton? I saw you and Will leaving the pier. . . .”

“So what?”

Lucy had intended to say what a nice couple they made, but her maneuver backfired.

Autumn turned on her with the ferocity of a feral cat. “I suppose you think we pushed Caroline into the water, too.”

Lucy drew back into herself. “Not at all. I didn’t think that. I was just making conversation. Everybody seemed to be having a lot of fun on the rides and all.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun. Roller coasters make me puke. And I couldn’t get rid of Will. He was stinking drunk, you know. He was all over me, pawing me. I hate when guys do that. He’s so immature.”

Lucy was shocked and fascinated by Autumn’s sudden change. At first she could hardly get a word out of her, but now the girl was on a roll. It was all pouring out, and Lucy wondered if she was the first person who’d ever listened to her.

“Guys are such creeps. It’s like they just assume if you don’t wear little pink blouses and pearl earrings that you’re some sort of slut, that you’ll do anything they want. And they always want it—anywhere, anytime. In the backseat, up against a wall, on a stinky old frat house couch.” She paused, considering a new possibility. “I bet that’s it, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised at all. It’s obvious.” The stream of words stopped abruptly and she sat primly, lips pressed together.

“What’s obvious?”

“Will and Caroline, that’s what. He must’ve lured her to one of those secluded spots there underneath the roller coaster. A guy like Will would think he was doing her a favor, giving a fat girl a big opportunity. And when it turned out she didn’t appreciate the wonderful chance to, you know, do whatever with him, he probably got mad, and maybe she tried to fight him off or something and he ended up pushing her into the water.” She looked at Lucy. “I can just see it, can’t you?”

Unfortunately, Lucy could.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he breakfast room was once again terribly quiet when Lucy and Sue went down on Thursday morning. They soon discovered the reason: Tom Smith was standing by the kitchen door, requesting trays to take up to his wife and daughter.

Lucy went right up to him. “How is Caroline?”

“She’s doing pretty well,” he said. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed to have lost about twenty pounds in one night. “She broke her arm and is covered with bruises. She’s in a lot of pain, but at the hospital they all said how lucky she was.”

“And when did you get back?”

“Around midnight. We hired a town car. It was expensive, but Caroline was in no shape to take the train, and Professor Rea offered to split the cost.”

One question was on everyone’s mind, but Lucy didn’t mention it. She just couldn’t bring herself to ask how Caroline managed to end up in the water. Instead she said, “That’s good news. We were all worried about her. I hope she makes a speedy recovery.”

When she joined Sue at the table, she was met with an accusation. “You waffled.”

Lucy nodded. “I know. But how could I? The poor man is obviously shattered.”

“And you call yourself a reporter!”

Lucy picked up the coffeepot and filled her cup. “I’m on vacation. If you want to know so badly, you ask him.”

Sue shook her head. “No, I was brought up to never ask personal questions.”

Hearing that, Lucy was chuckling when Quentin Rea arrived, practically bumping into Tom in the doorway. Tom was carrying the heavy breakfast tray the kitchen had prepared for him.

“Glad you’re up and about,” said Quentin. “I was wondering if you’ll be coming along to Westminster Abbey and the War Rooms?”

Tom didn’t answer. He was looking over Quentin’s shoulder, into the hallway, at Autumn. The girl no sooner spotted Tom than she whirled around and darted back upstairs.

“I’m coming,” said Tom. “Ann insisted. She knows how much I was looking forward to seeing Churchill’s command center. She’s going to stay here with Caroline.”

“I’ll see if the hotel can provide them with some lunch,” said Quentin.

“That would be great,” said Tom, heading down the hall.

Lucy turned her attention to the waitress, who had arrived to take their order. “This morning it’s eggs, bacon, and beans,” she said.

“No beans for me,” said Lucy. She couldn’t help wondering if Caroline was tucking into the complete breakfast or if in her fragile emotional state she was daintily nibbling a bit of toast. If her past behavior was anything to go by, she was going for the beans.

“I don’t buy it,” she said to Sue as Pam and Rachel joined them. “I just don’t see Caroline as the suicidal type.”

Westminster Abbey was a gorgeous remnant from the Middle Ages, surrounded by soulless modern buildings made of glass and steel. There was no expansive lawn here, no encircling wall. Only a small patch of grass and some sidewalk protected the Abbey from the noisy traffic on Victoria Street, where buses and taxis streamed past Big Ben on their way to Westminster Bridge and busy Waterloo station on the other side of the Thames. Across the street, plastic orange barricades and a large police presence awaited the protesters who regularly filled Parliament Square.

It was all hustle and bustle and honking horns and diesel engines outside, but inside the Abbey it was quiet as death. Tourists spoke in hushed voices as they wandered among the tombs of the royal and great, closely observed by robed clergy and volunteers sporting official badges on their dark clothing. A priest climbed the pulpit every now and then to remind all those present that this was a house of worship and to invite them to participate in a moment of silence and prayer.

Lucy and the girls were gathered together at the front of the nave near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, heads bowed along with everyone else, when they heard Will’s voice ring out, echoing in the huge vaulted space. “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” he cracked, then laughed. Nearby, one of the volunteers rolled her eyes. Lucy wondered how many times a day she heard the same bad joke.

Nevertheless, when the moment of silence ended, Lucy headed straight for the plaque marking Livingstone’s resting place.
BROUGHT
BY
FAITHFUL
HANDS
OVER
LAND
AND
SEA
HERE
RESTS
DAVID
LIVINGSTONE
,
MISSIONARY
,
TRAVELER
,
PHILANTHROPIST
.
FOR
30
YEARS
HIS
LIFE
WAS
SPENT
IN
AN
UNWEARIED
EFFORT
TO
EVANGELIZE
THE
NATIVE
RACES
,
TO
EXPLORE
THE
UNDISCOVERED
SECRETS
,
TO
ABOLISH
THE
DESOLATING
SLAVE
TRADE
OF
CENTRAL
AFRICA
.

“I didn’t know that,” said Rachel. “I thought he was just an explorer.”

“Me either.” Lucy raised her eyes to look at the massive stone walls of the nave, rising high above her and blocking out the sun. “Poor man, if he’d had his druthers, I bet he would have preferred to be buried in Africa.”

“He was a national hero,” said Quentin, joining them. “It’s a great honor to be buried here. They wouldn’t let Byron in, you know. He was considered immoral—he set a bad example by falling in love with his half sister Augusta.”

“Unlike the Unknown Soldier, who went off to fight for God and country.” Pam paused, fingering the peace symbol charm she’d clipped to her handbag. “I guess the Germans worship a different God from the English.”

“If we’ve learned anything on this trip, it’s that God is an Englishman.” Quentin caught Lucy’s eye and smiled at her. “There’s lots more to see. Follow me.” Falling into step behind him, they crossed the nave to the south transept, stopping in front of a number of plaques bearing writers’ names. “This is the Poets’ Corner.”

Standing together in a little group, their eyes wandered from one carved name to another: Dickens, Tennyson, Auden, Browning.

“Where’s Elizabeth Barrett?” asked Sue.

Quentin had the answer. “In Florence.”

“That’s so sad,” said Lucy. “They ought to be together.”

“There are some odd pairings,” said Quentin. “Elizabeth I and Mary are next to each other. It’s true they were half sisters, but they didn’t get along.”

“That’s odd,” said Laura, joining them. “Elizabeth had Mary’s head cut off, didn’t she?” Will was tagging along with his mother but didn’t seem to like it much. He was fidgeting, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and she gave him a warning look. “Listen to the professor and you might learn something.”

“That’s a common misconception,” said Quentin. “Mary died a natural death from illness. Elizabeth executed Mary, Queen of Scots. Her son brought her body here when he became king. It was kind of a slap in the face to Elizabeth. He even made sure his mother’s tomb was much prettier and more fashionable than Elizabeth’s.”

“Who was Bloody Mary?” Laura was keeping an eye on Will, who had begun to drift away toward a door leading to the cloister.

“Mary Tudor, Elizabeth’s half sister.” Quentin grimaced. “It was a well-deserved nickname. She executed more than three hundred Protestants, mostly by burning them alive.”

“I don’t like it here,” said Lucy, shuddering. “It’s a big old mausoleum.” She unfolded the brochure she’d been given with her admission button and noticed a green patch, the College Garden. “I think I’ll check out the garden.”

“Don’t you want to see Elizabeth’s tomb?” Quentin seemed disappointed.

“Not really.” She left the others, who were following Quentin to the Lady Chapel, and stepped through the same door Will had taken. She found herself in a chilly corridor, open on one side to the cloister. A sign pointed the way to the Chapter House and she followed it, finding herself in a simpler and more serene part of the Abbey. It was an octagon-shaped room, the walls filled with stained-glass windows. There was nothing inside except a few explanatory signs pointing visitors to the faded decorative paintings on the rough stone walls.

Unlike the rest of the Abbey, this room was full of light, and she lingered, studying the windows that had been damaged by German bombers during World War II. Standing there, she was struck by the incongruity of this building supposedly devoted to faith and prayer that was so full of reminders of war and death. She was thinking of soldiers who fought for God and country, kings and queens who executed their rivals, and planes that rained nighttime terror down on innocent people. It was too depressing. She had to find that garden.

But when she finally discovered it, she found a notice on the door advising it was closed for the day. Retracing her steps, she encountered Will and his mother in the cloister. Laura was holding Will’s sleeve and speaking earnestly to him, but she stopped abruptly when she spotted Lucy.

“You should have stayed with us,” she said. “That’s what I was just telling Will. Professor Rea makes it all so interesting. He said Mary and Elizabeth really hated each other but they’re buried together, side by side.”

“Talk about rolling in your grave—they’re probably tearing each others’ hair out,” said Lucy.

Laura gave a funny little chuckle and slipped her arm firmly through her son’s. “Family members should care for each other. Don’t you agree?”

Will was looking across the cloister to the other side, where Autumn was leaning against a stone pillar. Dressed in her habitual black, she looked a bit like a witch and every bit as out of place as a genuine witch would be in this Christian shrine.

Lucy turned to Laura, noting her anxious expression. “I think we should all care for one another. We’re all on this little overheated planet together, after all. We all have the same needs and hopes. It’s time we put our differences aside and work together to make life better for everyone.”

“Like Livingstone,” said Will, detaching himself from his mother and heading toward Autumn.

Laura watched him go. “I worry about that boy,” she said.

Lucy thought she was right to worry but didn’t say so. “Come on, let’s find the others,” she said.

Lucy wasn’t in the mood to see the Cabinet War Rooms but went along with the group since the admission fee was included in the tour. She didn’t want to dwell on the terrible loss of life caused by World War II but focused instead on the homely details of Churchill’s simple living quarters: the kettle on the old-fashioned stove, the dining table and chairs that were just like those she remembered seeing as a child in her great-aunt Mary’s house in Ludlow, Massachusetts.

As they trooped through the underground rooms, Lucy noticed that Autumn and Will kept their distance from Tom Smith, who pointedly ignored them. He was a big Churchill fan and expressed his enthusiasm in the museum devoted to his life. “He fought in the Boer War, you know,” declared Tom. “He wasn’t just a politician; he was a real soldier. He’d seen combat himself—he knew what it was all about.”

“He was an artist, too,” said Rachel, pausing before a landscape painting of green fields.

“And they say he was a real family man,” added Laura with a glance at Will.

He and Autumn were whispering together in a corner.

“He adored his wife, Clementine.” Sue was staring critically at a photo of a rather plump, middle-aged woman. “You’d think she would have done more with herself.”

“He loved her the way she was. They were married for more than fifty years,” observed Pam.

“If it wasn’t for the old bulldog, Hitler might’ve won the war,” said Tom. “The Blitz took a terrible toll on London.”

“And the Allies did even worse to Dresden and Berlin, but you don’t hear about that,” said Pam, who was a staunch member of the Mothers March for Peace. “And we’re the ones who dropped the atom bomb on Japan.”

“It had to be done,” said Dr. Cope. “The war would have dragged on much longer and many more lives would have been lost.”

“Churchill was right about Hitler,” said Tom. “He knew from the beginning that appeasement wouldn’t work.”

Lucy was growing impatient with all this talk. “Hitler got his in the end,” she said. “I’m ready for lunch.”

“Hitler committed suicide—he took his own life,” said Dr. Cope. “He never faced a war crimes tribunal. He was never punished for the terrible things he did. By committing suicide, he denied the survivors even the small satisfaction of seeing him disgraced and punished.”

Tom Smith agreed. “The Italians strung up Mussolini. They tore him apart. Literally. They realized he’d led them astray and they took it out on Il Duce. The Germans never did. They collaborated; they followed orders. They’re just as guilty as Hitler because they didn’t stop him.”

“Tom Cruise tried,” said Sue, and everyone turned to look at her. “In that movie, I mean. German officers plotted to kill Hitler but the bomb misfired and they were all rounded up and killed.”

“They were betrayed,” said Dr. Cope, addressing the group in a serious tone that struck Lucy as sounding more like a warning than a casual observation.

“Something’s going on,” she said, unwrapping the sandwich she’d bought in a Pret A Manger shop. She was sitting on a bench along with her three friends in St. James’s Park, watching the ducks and pelicans gathered at the edge of the lake, looking for handouts. It was a sunny afternoon and the friends had decided it was much too nice a day to spend in the Tate Britain museum, which was where the rest of the group had gone.

“What do you mean?” asked Sue, who was sipping a bottle of iced tea.

“There’s some kind of tension. Don’t you feel it?”