English Tea Murder (20 page)

Making her way to the very center of the double circle, Lucy watched as the rosy sky deepened to a deep, blazing red and shafts of light from the sinking sun pierced the openings between the stones. It was an amazing sight, and she stood, awestruck and silent at the spectacle. She’d seen some pretty fabulous sunsets in Maine, of course, but this was different. The place itself, with its strange formation of stones, almost like something a child might build out of stones on the beach, made it different. And maybe, she thought with a flash of insight, that was what Stonehenge was really about. Maybe it was a grand, exaggerated version of that innate desire to build that children had, the same impulse that made children reach for building blocks and LEGOs and Tinkertoys. She was smiling to herself, musing on this thought, when she heard the scream.

The sound hit her like an electric shock and she went rigid, snapping to attention. She turned, straining, listening for a repeat but no sound came. She started to run, dodging around the stones, trying to find the screamer. Was it a joke? Had Will startled one of the girls? Had Quentin gotten a little too amorous?

No. What she heard was a gut-wrenching scream of terror. She’d heard that cry before and knew it must be heeded. It was as impossible to ignore as a baby’s cry. Somebody was in trouble, and every fiber of her being impelled her to do something.

She was breathing heavily now, getting confused as she ran from stone to stone in the steadily dimming light. The sky was violet, and the stones were hulking black shapes casting long shadows. She was beginning to fear she wouldn’t be able to find whoever screamed when she caught a flash of white beyond the farthest stone, a single massive pillar that stood alone.

Panting and gasping for breath, she ran as fast as she could across the circle; then, reaching the stone, she stopped and listened. There was nothing, nothing but the brooding black stone. Maybe it was all a mistake; maybe she’d overreacted. She turned, about to return to the lighted tunnel and the gift shop where her friends were probably waiting for her, when she heard a muffled moan.

Without thinking, running on adrenaline, she charged around the stone and found three dark figures. At first, it wasn’t clear what was going on. Then her eyes adjusted and she saw Will was holding Pam tight against him, his hand clapped over her mouth. In the fading light, Pam’s eyes gleamed, wide with terror, because the third person, Autumn, was waving a knife in front of her nose.

“What’s going on?” demanded Lucy.

Autumn lunged toward her, and Lucy, too shocked to move, would have been stabbed except for the sudden arrival of Tom Smith. He barreled in like a rugby player and took Autumn down; the knife went flying and Lucy scrambled to pick it up.

“Enough is enough,” declared Tom. “Let her go.”

Will stared at him, still holding tight to Pam, who struggled to free herself. “Are you crazy?” he demanded, glaring at Tom. “We have to get rid of them. They know all about it. I saw the e-mails. Do you really want to go to jail for life?”

“Yeah.” Tom pulled himself up to his full five feet six inches and stuck out his barrel chest. “Yeah. I’ll go to jail. If somebody has to take the rap, I’m ready. I’ll do it. I killed Temple and you know what? I’d do it again!”

Chapter Twenty

W
ill reluctantly released Pam, and she collapsed into Lucy’s arms. Pam was trembling, her teeth chattering, and Lucy held her close. Lucy was cold, too, and still wary. The three could turn on them at any minute, and she was relieved when Quentin came striding toward them.

“It’s getting cold and the staff are eager to lock up for the night,” he said, apparently so intent on rounding up the group that he ignored the fact that Autumn was sprawled on the ground and Pam was tearfully clinging to Lucy. “Let’s go back to the minivan.”

“Not so fast,” protested Lucy. “Will and Autumn attacked Pam,” she said, showing him the knife. “And Tom’s confessed to killing Temple. We need to call the authorities. I insist on it.”

Lucy didn’t get the shocked reaction she expected. “No one was hurt, were they?” asked Quentin, watching as Will bent over Autumn and helped her to her feet. “We’ll sort this all out in comfort, in the van. Let’s go.” He pointed the pair toward the exit and waited for them to take the lead before starting off himself.

Tom fell into step beside Quentin. “Like I said before, I’ll take the rap for Temple. It’s the only way to end this thing.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Quentin, slapping him on the back. “But I certainly appreciate the gesture.”

Lucy and Pam brought up the rear, saying little. Pam still clung to Lucy, who found herself increasingly furious with Quentin. Her friend had been attacked, and Quentin seemed more concerned with keeping the tour on schedule than doing the right thing and reporting the incident to the authorities. Will and Autumn were out of control and had to be stopped. It was outrageous, and she was determined to get justice for Pam—and Temple, too. Because the more she thought about it, the less she believed Tom Smith’s confession. Of the group, he seemed the least likely to be involved, and she suspected his confession was nothing more than a clumsy attempt to protect somebody else. Caroline? His wife? Both were obviously troubled, but neither seemed a likely murder suspect.

Finally reaching the van, Lucy hesitated a moment before climbing aboard the van. What were she and Pam getting into? But the interior lights were on and Sue and Rachel were there, as well as the driver. She looked back over her shoulder, but the windows were already dark in the gift shop and ticket area. The parking lot was now deserted except for the minivan, and she could see the red taillights of the departing employees’ cars. Still holding tight to Pam’s hand, she clambered up the steps.

“What took you so long?” asked Rachel. “Were you enchanted by the mystery of Stonehenge?”

“Not exactly,” muttered Lucy, glaring at Quentin. “I think we’re owed an explanation.”

The driver cast a questioning look at Quentin. “We’re getting late here, sir.”

“Yes, yes, we must get going,” replied Quentin.

The driver dimmed the lights and the minibus began to move; Quentin seated himself sideways with his legs in the aisle in order to face the group.

“Lucy is right,” he said. “There was an altercation involving two Winchester students. . . .”

“
Altercation
isn’t the right word,” insisted Lucy. “Will and Autumn attacked Pam.”

Rachel gasped and Sue reached her hand over the seat to pat Pam on the shoulder.

“This has gone too far,” said Dr. Cope. “I—”

Quentin cut him off. “Before you say anything more, let me continue. Obviously there is no excuse whatsoever for violence, but Autumn and Will were acting under the mistaken assumption that Pam was not satisfied that George Temple died of natural causes and had begun an investigation. They were fearful they would be implicated in some way.”

“She was asking questions—I saw the e-mails!” declared Will.

Quentin chuckled and shook his head. “One of the things I always warn my students about is their tendency to jump to conclusions. There is no substitute for solid research, and I think Will and Autumn were a bit too impetuous—that is, of course, one of the hallmarks of youth, perhaps complicated in this case by certain emotional and social deficiencies, which the college is working to address in a supportive group setting.” He looked at Lucy. “You can be sure this incident will be reported and dealt with by the college, but I’m sure we don’t want to expose our young travelers to the vagaries of the British justice system.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I don’t like this, but it’s really up to Pam.”

“I’m fine with it,” said Pam. “But I will hold you to your word. If you don’t report them, I will.” She paused. “But what about Tom’s confession?”

Ann Smith’s voice was shaky. “What confession? What did you do, Tom?”

Quentin spoke quickly, before Tom could answer. “This trip has been stressful, and I think Tom was . . . well, I guess you could say he cracked for a minute there, and, well, this is a psychological phenomenon related to stress. It’s not all that uncommon actually, where an individual reacts to a traumatic situation by coming to believe he caused the situation. In other words”—Quentin gave a little chuckle—“as preposterous as this may seem, Tom actually confessed to killing George Temple.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ann’s voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical as she defended her husband. “He’s no more guilty than the rest of us!”

“Exactly,” said Quentin quickly. “And we all know that the British authorities, including Scotland Yard, conducted a thorough inquiry following George Temple’s untimely and tragic death and concluded it was the unfortunate result of an extreme asthma attack.”

The van swerved and Quentin grabbed the armrest to avoid being thrown out of his seat. Lucy noticed his teeth gleaming in an embarrassed grimace as he regained his equilibrium. “So I think now the best thing is for us to relax and enjoy the rest of the trip back to London.”

There was a general sigh of relief in the bus as everyone settled in for the ride. Lucy, however, wasn’t satisfied. She couldn’t forget the terrible look on Temple’s face as he struggled for breath. The group members’ actions at the airport and on the plane seemed normal enough, but if you thought about it another way, those actions seemed part of a carefully choreographed dance of death.

“That’s quite a story you’ve concocted,” she said, her voice small but firm in the darkness, “but it doesn’t add up. I was at the airport. I was right next to George Temple on the plane. I saw what happened. There was a series of small events that seemed innocent enough by themselves but were actually designed to cause his death, and I think you were all part of it in one way or another.”

“But why would we do such a thing?” protested Laura. “What would bring us all together to do such a terrible thing?”

“George Temple was an investment advisor who defrauded his clients,” said Lucy. “And from what you’ve told me yourselves in the course of this trip, I suspect you were all victims of his scheme.” Lucy’s voice dropped a few notes. “Laura, you told me your mother died because of the poor care she received in a second-rate nursing home. Was that all you could afford because Temple swindled you? Or perhaps your mother?”

“That’s terrible,” said Rachel, her voice rich with sympathy, “and I can understand that you might very well want revenge. But, Lucy, think a minute. Even if all these people were victimized by George Temple, how did they manage to find each other?”

“Through the kids: Autumn, Will, Jennifer, and Caroline. They’re all in this support group Quentin was talking about. They all heard each other’s stories and put two and two together and realized their families had all suffered because of George Temple.”

“Temple deserved to die.” It was Dr. Cope, sounding like the voice of doom. “I have no regrets about what we did. He was every bit as evil as a mass murderer. He toyed with his victims. He ruined them—he caused untold suffering. My son-in-law couldn’t face the shame when he learned he’d lost everything, and he killed himself, plunging my daughter into despair. She never recovered—she’s dependent on psychotropic drugs. She lives in a fog. George Temple took their lives and deprived my granddaughter of her parents’ love and support.”

“He got off with a tap on the knuckles,” Tom hissed. “Two years was all he got. It took Ann longer than that to recover after the accident, and we lost our baby boy. It wouldn’t have happened if we’d had the money to repair the car, to keep it up. We were driving a wreck, didn’t have a cent to our names. I was a fool. I trusted him with all our savings. He said it was stupid to put money in the bank when you could do so much better in the stock market. But he never invested it. He just used my money to pay other investors, pretending they were making fabulous returns. It was a classic Ponzi scheme and it all fell apart.” He paused, clenching his fists. “I’d do it again. If somebody has to be punished, I’d be honored to plead guilty to killing that weasel.”

“You shouldn’t take the blame. We were all part of it,” said Dr. Cope.

“It started with me,” said Tom. “I slipped the toy gun in his pocket so he’d be searched by airport security.”

“But I was the one who hung around the airport, pretending to be late, just to upset him,” declared Will.

“And I kept fretting to add to the tension,” admitted Laura, a note of pride in her voice.

“You did a great job,” offered Ann, “but I wrapped him up in a mildewed old scarf to get his asthma going.”

“I stole the bottle of allergy medicine out of his carry-on bag.” Caroline’s voice was confident. Lucy noticed she was sitting alone, apart from her parents.

Jennifer chimed in: “I opened the peanuts, knowing he was allergic, and waved the packet under his nose.”

Autumn was rubbing her elbow, sore from her fall. “I knocked his rescue inhaler into his drink. . . .”

“It all went off like clockwork,” said Dr. Cope, congratulating the group.

Lucy stared from one to the other, hardly believing what she was hearing. They’d conspired to kill a man. They’d acted in cold blood without a shred of compassion, and they seemed proud of what they’d done. She’d been right next to Temple. She’d seen him struggling for breath and was convinced that nobody, no matter what they’d done, should have to suffer like that. She believed in her heart that his killers must be punished.

Dr. Cope was speaking slowly and clearly; he might have been instructing a patient on how to take his medicine. “When they called for a doctor, I used a spent EpiPen, guaranteeing Temple’s death. My crime was the worst—I violated my Hippocratic oath. By withholding the epinephrine, I caused his death.” He straightened his back, rising a bit in his seat. “I’m the one who should be punished.” He turned to Lucy. “Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to Scotland Yard and turn myself in.”

“But you didn’t go to Scotland Yard. What changed your mind?” asked Sue.

Lucy and her three friends were seated in a window table at the Wolseley, a posh Piccadilly restaurant, waiting for the server to deliver their afternoon tea. It was the last day of the trip; they would be flying home first thing the next day.

Lucy glanced around at the sleek art deco dining room, then looked down at the black and silver place mat, the heavy pieces of silverware. She picked up the silky starched linen napkin and spread it on her lap, smoothing it while she gathered her thoughts.

“It was their stories. What happened to the Smiths was terrible—their baby son died because they couldn’t afford to get the brakes fixed on their car. And Laura’s mother suffered horribly in that nursing home—she actually died from bedsores!”

“Too dreadful,” murmured Sue. “And Jennifer’s father committed suicide. Families never recover from a thing like that. There’s always the feeling that you could have done something to prevent it.”

“But the worst was Autumn,” said Pam. “Her family became homeless. The bank foreclosed on their house, and they lived in their car for a while, but when her father began drinking, that became impossible for them. Her mother went to a homeless shelter with Autumn, thinking it would be safer, but she was raped there.”

“Autumn, too,” said Lucy, soothing herself by stroking a spoon that felt pleasantly solid in her hand. “And then her mother got hooked on drugs, and Autumn went into foster care.” She put the spoon down as a small parade of waiters approached. “What a nightmare!”

Conversation stopped as the first waiter presented a silver cake stand laden with sandwiches, scones, and cakes and placed it in the center of the table with a flourish. “The scones are cranberry today,” he announced. “The sandwiches are egg and cress on tomato bread, salmon on wholemeal bread, jambon on cheese bread, and chicken salad on white bread.”

They listened attentively as he pointed out the tiny triangles that were so artfully arranged. Lucy was starving and her mouth was watering.

“Also, we have an assortment of cakes: mini éclairs, gateau au chocolat, tartes des fruits, and lemon cupcakes. Enjoy!”

“I’m sure we will,” said Rachel, somewhat dazed.

“Earl Grey for you, madam?” Another waiter was at Lucy’s elbow, filling her cup with fragrant, steaming tea and then leaving the silver pot on the table for her. The others, in turn, received their Lapsang souchong, Assam, and Darjeeling. Then the servers vanished and they were confronted with the problem of where to start.

“I say we go for the cakes first,” said Sue. “Why fill up on the other stuff?”

Rachel adopted her nanny face. “We can’t begin with cake—the sandwiches are the most nourishing.”

“Let’s compromise and start with the scones,” suggested Pam. “Just look at that Devonshire cream.”

It took some time to properly assemble the scones and cream, as well as the strawberry jam, on their plates, and Lucy became thoughtful. “These are really good,” she said, biting into the warm, buttery, slightly crisp scone that was a perfect foil for the luscious toppings.

“I know,” said Sue. “These are amazingly delicious—so delicious, in fact, that I’m going to pretend they don’t have any calories at all.”

“Me too!” declared Pam.

They sat in silence, savoring their treat, until Sue raised her finger, indicating a thought had occurred to her. “Have you heard from Elizabeth, Lucy? I just wondered because, frankly, I could use something a little stronger than tea, and they do have champagne.” Her face brightened at the prospect, then adopted a more serious expression. “But if you’re strapped, we can certainly stick to the tea.”