English Tea Murder (16 page)

The office was very small, painted green, but very neat, and it had a wonderful view of the Thames. Neal, who had hung his suit jacket on a coat tree and had rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his necktie, immediately noticed Pam’s swollen ankle and leaped from behind his desk to hold a chair for her. She expelled a huge sigh as she settled herself. Lucy, sitting beside her, noticed and felt guilty for dragging her along on what was probably a wild-goose chase.

“Soo, Mrs. Stone, you say you have new information about George Temple’s death, which the medical examiner and the coroner have determined to be the result of an asthma attack.”

Lucy spoke slowly and carefully. “I think the attack was caused by the tour members. I think they did things on purpose that would cause him to have a reaction.”

Neal didn’t seem convinced. “Really? How so?”

Lucy ticked off the events at the airport, the peanut granola, and the incident with his inhaler. Seeing that she wasn’t making much of an impression, she made a reckless accusation. “Even the EpiPen could have been faked,” she added.

Pam was shaking her head. “I don’t think Dr. Cope is involved, but I do think something weird is going on. Caroline Smith was pushed off the pier, and I was knocked into traffic today, twisting my ankle.”

“Foreigners always forget to look right,” said Neal, leaning back in his chair. He’d formed a little tent with his fingers and seemed to be enjoying himself.

“I was pushed,” insisted Pam. “It was not a matter of not looking in the right direction.”

Neal smiled. “And have you been having a nice time in London? Seeing the sights?”

Lucy didn’t like the direction this was taking. “London’s fine; it’s the group that’s worrisome,” she said.

“I fear that is often the case when an oddly assorted group of people travel together. Tensions often arise.” He paused. “I wonder, have you been to the theater?”

Pam and Lucy nodded.

“I mention it, because the incidents you’ve described to me almost seem like the plot of a play. You didn’t perhaps see a thriller?”

“We saw
The Mousetrap.
” Lucy felt as if she were signing a confession.

“Aha.” Neal nodded. “Case solved. I think we can put your suspicions down to less than congenial company and overwrought imaginations.” He stood. “I’ll be happy to call a cab for you, and I think we can rustle up a wheelchair to get you back downstairs.”

Pam was touched by his consideration. “Thank you so much.”

Lucy less so. “Thanks for your time,” she grumbled.

Back at the hotel, Lucy and Pam stopped in the lounge and had a cup of tea to fortify themselves for the climb upstairs. Pam insisted she could manage by taking each stair with her good leg and hanging on to the railing for support. Lucy was doubtful.

“Maybe we can get you a room on a lower floor,” she suggested, heading over to the computer where she planned to check her e-mail. A stack of papers on the printer caught her eye, and she glanced at them, finding they were from Ted.

“Here’s your e-mail,” she said, taking the pages over to Pam.

“Oh, good, this is that story about Tim’s project in New Orleans,” she said, flipping through the papers. “Oh, and Ted says he’ll get on that George Temple research for you when he has a minute.”

“Tell him thanks for me,” said Lucy, closing out her e-mail account. No word from Elizabeth. Oh, well, she decided. No news was good news. At least she hoped it was.

Chapter Sixteen

“D
on’t you think there was something positively sinister about that place?” asked Sue, holding the hotel door for her friends who were returning from dinner at a highly recommended French restaurant.

“The food was awfully good,” said Rachel.

“And it was the closest one—I was glad not to have to walk very far,” said Pam.

“But those waiters . . .” Lucy shuddered. “I didn’t like the way they stood around, watching. It was weird.”

“Like in a movie, when they’re focusing on supposedly everyday activities to build the tension.” Sue gave a knowing nod.

“Maybe it was just everyday stuff,” said Pam. “I think you’re overreacting. It’s just that we were early and they didn’t have much to do. The place was just starting to hop when we were ready to leave.”

Sue yawned. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m beat. I think I’ll go on up to bed.”

“Me too,” said Rachel, starting up the stairs and leaving Lucy and Pam in the foyer.

“I’m not tired yet. I slept in this morning,” said Lucy. “Besides, I’d like to check my e-mail again.”

“I’m not ready to face the climb,” said Pam. “Let’s see what’s doing in the lounge.”

When they entered, they found a card table had been set up and Laura Barfield, Ann Smith, and Dr. Cope were all playing Scrabble. Pam immediately hobbled over.

“Do you mind if I join? I love Scrabble,” she said.

“I don’t mind at all. You’re quite welcome,” said Ann.

“But you’ll be at a disadvantage,” warned Dr. Cope, studying his tiles. “We’ve already racked up quite a few points.”

“Not a problem.” Pam was lowering herself into the fourth chair. “I don’t care about winning—I just like to play.”

Not a problem at all,
thought Lucy, seating herself at the computer. If she were a betting person, she’d put her money on Pam, even with a late start. She was an absolute fiend at Scrabble, never missing an opportunity for a triple-word score, preferably one with an
X.

“Did you all enjoy Windsor?” Pam was busy arranging her tiles on the little wooden rack.

“It’s a bit of a factory—they move you right along,” said Ann, putting down some tiles. “There.
Ambiguity.
And a double-word score.”

“Very nice,” said Dr. Cope. “Afraid all I can come up with is yak.”

“Did you get a look at Eton?” inquired Lucy, waiting for the computer to connect and authorize.

“
Student,
” crowed Laura, laying down the letters. “Thanks, Lucy.”

“No, the weather was foul and the hike up the hill to the castle entrance was rather strenuous, so we ended up having a long lunch at a nearby pub.” Dr. Cope looked at Pam. “It doesn’t seem to me we’ve left you much room to maneuver.”

Lucy had opened her account but once again found no message from Elizabeth. Bill, however, had sent a long, rambling note about Zoe’s big track meet against the rival Gilead Giants and Sara’s problems with her history term paper. She was busy writing back with congratulations for Zoe and helpful hints for Sara when there was a sudden upset at the Scrabble table and the board went flying, scattering wooden tiles every which way.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t mean to do that!” Laura was on her knees, gathering up the little wooden squares.

“Let me help.” Dr. Cope dropped to the floor to help. “We better find them all.”

Ann was also stooping and picking up the game pieces. “We don’t want to spoil the game.”

“I wish I could help,” said Pam. “But I’m on the disabled list.”

Dr. Cope looked up at her. “What’s the problem?”

“I twisted my ankle. I expect it will be better tomorrow.”

“Better let me take a look at it.”

Pam smiled as he hobbled across the floor on his knees. “Sorry—I’m already married.”

“If you would just lift your pants leg,” he said, smiling at her joke as he took her ankle in his hand. “It’s definitely swollen. Does this hurt?”

“Aah,” protested Pam.

“Doesn’t seem too serious to me. Try to stay off it as much as you can. Ibuprofen will help with the pain and reduce inflammation.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Pam. “Shall we try another game?”

Ann was already back at the table, flipping the tiles so the letters faced down.

“I think I’m done for the night,” said Laura, dropping a handful of tiles on the table and dashing for the arched doorway.

Lucy, who was rising from her seat at the computer and relocating to the sofa, watched her sudden departure and caught a glimpse of Will taking the stairs two at a time, with his mother hurrying after him. A moment later, Jennifer wandered into the lounge with her usual uncertain attitude and seated herself on the sofa.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked, tugging at a lock of hair.

“Not at all,” said Lucy. “There’s room for two.” She paused, reaching for a magazine. She opened it and began turning the pages. “Did you enjoy Windsor?”

“The castle is like a fairy tale,” said Jennifer. “I’d like to live there.” She blushed. “I guess every girl wants to be a princess.”

At the card table, Ann Smith, Pam, and Dr. Cope were choosing their letters and arranging them on their racks for a fresh game.

“A princess in a castle needs a gallant champion,” said Pam. “Any prospects?”

Jennifer laughed. “Not a one.”

“Not even Will?” asked Lucy, keeping her eyes on the magazine.

“He didn’t come. He wanted to see some dungeon thing here in London.”

Lucy’s and Pam’s eyes met as Dr. Cope slapped down all of his tiles on the board.

“Look at that:
dragons.
” He chuckled as he filled his rack again. “Will the Dragon Slayer.”

Jennifer was looking uncomfortable, so Lucy decided to change the subject. “Are you looking forward to getting back to school?” she asked.

“I’ve really been enjoying the trip, but now that we’re nearing the end, I have to admit I’ve been thinking about all the work that’s waiting for me back at school. Finals are coming up soon.”

“My daughter’s going to graduate in a few weeks,” said Lucy, “if she manages to stay out of trouble.”

“Where does she go?”

“Chamberlain, in Boston. She’s an RA. At least she was. She hasn’t been getting along with the new dean, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she lost her position.”

Jennifer turned to her. “Are you angry with her?”

Lucy considered the question as tiles clicked in the background. “A little bit, I guess, but this sort of thing is nothing new. Elizabeth’s always been a challenging kid.”

“She’s lucky to have such understanding parents. At school it seems kids are always at odds and fighting with their parents. Nobody at school ever says anything nice about their parents. They resent them.”

Lucy didn’t have any trouble imagining this. “What about you? Do you say bad things about your family?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No. Gramps and I are real close.” She turned her head and winked at him, and he winked back. “My father died when I was a baby, and Mom and I moved in with Gramps. He’s been super.”

“It’s been a pleasure, my dear.” He was watching Pam put down her tiles and groaned. “You are a devil,” he said, toting up her score. “Eighty-seven. How do you do it?”

“Practice. I play a lot with my husband. He’s a newspaper editor.”

“Humph.” Dr. Cope was studying the letters on his rack. “I call that an unfair advantage.”

Ann’s usually worried expression seemed to deepen. “What newspaper?”

“Tinker’s Cove,” said Pam automatically, replacing the tiles she’d used.

Lucy yawned and stood up, deciding to give her e-mail one more try before heading up to bed. “Cross your fingers for me—I’m giving Elizabeth one more chance before I turn in for the night.”

“Consider them crossed,” said Pam, busy rearranging the letters on her rack.

The computer was much faster this time, and Lucy got right into her e-mail account. There was no news from Elizabeth, but there was one from Ted. Opening it, she found he’d done the research about George Temple that Pam had requested.

I had to go back quite a few years, all the way back to the savings and loan crisis in the nineties. He lost his job as a bank president. He was basically fired by the board of directors and went into business for himself as an investment advisor. The fact that he’d been fired was kept secret, and quite a lot of bank customers signed on with him, but he wasn’t any better with investments than he was with banking. When the investments he recommended started losing value, he began falsifying the statements and inevitably began using good money to cover bad. The business turned into a Ponzi scheme. It all came apart in 1991 when a client began to suspect something was fishy and complained to the state. An investigation followed, and a lot of people who thought they were prudent investors learned they were broke, and Temple was convicted of fraud. He had a sympathetic judge—a lot of eminent types testified on his behalf, saying he never meant to hurt anyone, that he was just trying to keep things afloat until the market recovered—and he went to jail for a couple of years.

When he got out, he went back to school and got a master’s degree in history, cum laude, no less. Those same friends who testified on his behalf helped again and found him the job at Winchester College, where he seems to have been a great success. I called the college president, who says his death is a great loss to the school; Temple was even being considered for a professorship, something she said was long overdue. She also said a memorial service is planned for next week. If I learn anything more, I’ll pass it along. Meanwhile, Lucy, the work is piling up on your desk!

Lucy grimaced, picturing the stack of papers that she would face when she returned, and hit the PRINT button. Instead of obediently printing the page for her, the printer began beeping, alerting her to a paper jam. When she cleared it and tossed the offending paper into the nearby wastebasket she noticed a couple of sheets that looked familiar. Bending down to retrieve them she realized they were copies of the same attachment from Ted that she was printing. Ted must have sent the information to Pam as well, and Pam’s copy had printed earlier that day when the virus scan was complete. Which meant, thought Lucy, that somebody else had found it.

“I guess I’ll say good night,” she said to the room in general as she bundled the papers together.

Pam gave an ostentatious yawn. “You know, I think I’ll head upstairs, too. All this thinking has plum worn me out.” She added her tiles to the others spread out on the table. “It was fun. I hope we can do it again.”

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Cope. “You’ve certainly raised the level of the game.”

“Sleep well,” said Ann.

Lucy and Pam climbed the stairs in silence, except for the occasional groan from Pam, until they reached the top floor. There, she caught Lucy’s arm. “A funny thing happened during the game.”

Lucy was interested. “Really?”

Pam gave her a knowing look. “Remember when the board spilled?”

“Yeah.”

“Laura knocked it on purpose.”

“Why? Is she a sore loser?”

“I think it was the word I put down. The minute she saw it, she went all white.”

“Interesting. What was the word?”

Pam paused for emphasis.
“Murder.”

“That is very interesting,” said Lucy. “And there was another interesting thing. Did you notice? Will didn’t go to Windsor. He stayed in London today.”

“I noticed that, too.” Pam shrugged. “But why would he want to knock me into the street?”

“Remember your attachment from Ted, the one you couldn’t get? Well here it is,” said Lucy, handing the papers to Pam. “It came through on the printer. I found it in the trash—somebody didn’t want you to see it.”

“You really think there was some sort of conspiracy to kill George?”

“Tell me what you think after you read it. It’s pretty interesting stuff.”

“See you in the morning.” Pam was already reading as she limped across the hall to her room.

Opening the door to the room she shared with Sue, Lucy found the lights were on but Sue had fallen asleep with an open magazine spread out on her chest. Her mouth was open, and in the harsh light of the bedside lamp, she looked much older than she did in daytime, when her face was carefully made up. Even Sue, thought Lucy as she carefully lifted the magazine off her chest and turned off the light, was beginning to show her age.

They all were, she mused as she brushed her teeth and washed her face and carefully applied her drugstore night cream. Then, tucking herself into bed, she reached for the mystery she was reading. She found it difficult to concentrate on the story, however, as her thoughts returned over and over to George Temple’s death.

Perhaps Inspector Neal was right and she did have an overactive imagination, but she had learned to trust her instincts, and they were telling her that something was odd about this tour. People were jumpy; their reactions didn’t seem quite normal. There was Tom Smith’s inappropriate guffaw when Quentin announced the memorial service for Temple, and there was Laura Barfield’s startled reaction when Pam used the word
murder
in the Scrabble game. And these were just small incidents. Lucy’s mind began to whirl, remembering Autumn’s warning to Jennifer in the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s and the way she’d teased her with the ravens at the Tower of London. And, of course, there was Caroline’s tumble off the Brighton Pier. Autumn had been quick to suggest Will had something to do with it, but did he? And had he spent the day playing some fantasy game, or had he read the e-mail and decided to follow Pam instead? And if he did indeed push Pam into traffic, was he issuing a warning or intending to kill her?

Lucy didn’t know the answers to any of these questions. She closed her book, turned off the light, and rolled over, intending to go to sleep. She closed her eyes but couldn’t stop the film that was running in her mind. It was the faces of the tour members, one after another, all expressing sorrow, anger, anxiety. If someone had asked her to sum up the group in a word, it would be
tense.
They were all nervous and jumpy; it was in the air and it was contagious. It kept you awake at night, she decided, flopping on her back and opening her eyes to stare at the ceiling.