English Tea Murder (7 page)

“Whoa,” said Sue, putting on her sunglasses, “talk about a time warp.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lucy, spotting a sign pointing to the Great Vine. “This way, come on. We can’t miss this. It’s hundreds of years old.”

Sue was poring over the plan. “What exactly is it?”

“A grapevine. It was planted three hundred years ago.”

Sue’s eyebrows rose over her DKNY sunglasses. “So?”

“That’s amazing. Just imagine. Three hundred years and it still produces grapes.”

“Poor thing.” Sue was marching along the walkway. “They ought to let it retire.”

“Nope, it’s like the queen. It has to carry on until it dies.” Lucy waved her arm. “Just look at these gardens. They’re beautiful.”

As they walked along the side of the enormous palace, they could see various formal gardens laid out before them, many with lavishly planted beds packed with hyacinths and pansies, outlined by neatly clipped boxwood hedges.

“Their spring is way ahead of ours,” said Lucy. “I haven’t even seen a crocus at home.”

“We don’t really have spring in Maine,” observed Sue. “We go straight from winter to mud and then it’s summer and black flies.”

Lucy had paused in front of an old-fashioned little greenhouse, surrounded by a patch of freshly turned earth. “This is it,” she exclaimed, her voice full of awe. “The Great Vine.”

“I only see dirt,” said Sue.

“They don’t plant anything here. The roots are beneath this soil, and they don’t want anything to compete with the vine. Come on.” She grabbed Sue’s hand and pulled her toward the door.

Inside it was warm and humid, and the Great Vine was bare and leafless, its tendrils rising from a thick and knobby trunk and spreading beneath the greenhouse’s glass roof.

Lucy exhaled slowly. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

Sue was peering over her sunglasses, staring at the vine’s rough brown bark. “I don’t see it myself, but, then, I’m not much of a gardener. I suppose it’s quite nice when it has leaves and grapes.”

Lucy was crestfallen. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” said Sue, stifling a smile. “Now let’s find this famous maze.”

The walk to the maze took them past spacious lawns filled with thousands of naturalized daffodils, all in bloom. “Now this is more like it,” said Sue. “I like a bit of color, and look at the way they all nod in the breeze. When I get home, I’m going to plant a whole lot of daffodils.”

“You’ll have to wait till fall,” said Lucy.

Sue was doubtful. “Really?”

“Really. You plant them in the fall and they come up in the spring.”

Sue chewed her lip. “I’ll probably forget by then.”

“I’ll remind you.” Lucy had stopped before a wall of living green. “This is it. The maze. The entrance must be around the side.”

“It’s bigger than I thought,” said Sue. “What if we get lost and can’t get out?”

“I have an excellent sense of direction,” declared Lucy, stepping through the turnstile. “Follow me.”

Once inside the maze, Lucy found she’d spoken too soon. The twists and turns of the paths soon confused her, and they came to several dead ends that required them to retrace their steps through the narrow alleys between the clipped hedge. The hedge was too tall to see over, but they could hear voices as other visitors laughed and called to each other. They recognized Autumn’s voice, calling, “This way, come this way,” and followed it to the center of the maze. But when they got there, they didn’t find Autumn, only Jennifer, who was wiping tears from her eyes with her hands.

Lucy’s motherly instincts were aroused and she produced a tissue from her bag. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” The girl smiled wanly. “I had a little panic attack, but now that you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

“Where’s Autumn?” Sue gestured at the enclosed space, empty except for the three of them. “I heard her voice.”

“She was here but she ran off.” Jennifer’s face was an angry red, in marked contrast to her usual pallor.

“Why did she do that?” asked Lucy, suspecting the girls had quarreled.

Jennifer licked her lips nervously and shrugged her bony shoulders. “You know how she is. She thought it would be fun to frighten me. She knew I was afraid I couldn’t find my way out.”

“That’s rather mean,” said Sue.

Jennifer was quick to defend Autumn. “Oh, she didn’t mean anything by it.” She tucked the used tissue into her pocket. “What does happen if you can’t figure it out? Do they leave you here all night?”

“I don’t think so.” Sue was leading the way. “I imagine they keep count. That’s probably what the turnstile is for.”

“Oh.” Jennifer giggled nervously. “Now I feel foolish. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“They don’t call it a maze for nothing,” said Sue, pausing at a fork and trying to decide which way to go. “It’s very disorienting.”

“Go left,” said Lucy. “When in doubt, go left.”

Sue was doubtful. “Why?”

“Because it’s natural to go right and the maze designer knows that.”

“Okay,” agreed Sue, turning the corner and discovering a sign pointing to the exit. “Look at that! Easy as pie.”

“Pie!” exclaimed Lucy. “Do you realize we haven’t had lunch yet? I’m starving.”

“I could do with a bite myself,” said Sue. “Let’s head back to the entrance. I saw a sign for a café there.”

Jennifer walked along with them. “Do you mind if I come, too?”

Lucy was impressed by her politeness and gave her a little hug. “Not at all.”

It was quite some distance through the palace and back to the entrance gate, and then even farther to the Tiltyard Café, which was tucked behind a formal garden outside the palace. When Lucy saw the sign advertising Devonshire cream teas, she was encouraged.

“Look!” she exclaimed. “We can have afternoon tea.”

The little café was packed. Every table inside and out was occupied by people of every size and description, speaking numerous languages, and all of whom seemed to be tucking into their afternoon snacks.

Jennifer’s eyes were enormous as she watched the servers dipping out big scoops of Devonshire cream and strawberry jam that they arranged on plates alongside freshly baked scones. Even Sue was taking an interest. “When in England, do as the English,” she said, joining the queue and taking a tray.

She’d no sooner picked it up than Quentin hailed them from the exit, where he was returning his empty dishes to the rack by the door. “Lucy!” he called. “It’s three o’clock!”

Lucy’s stomach growled in protest. “We’ll get it to go,” she promised.

“You don’t have time! The bus is leaving!”

Jennifer was already hurrying across the café to Quentin, who was waiting for them by the door.

Sue replaced the tray with a thunk. “Just as well,” she muttered. “Those things must be loaded with calories.”

As they departed, Lucy’s eye was caught by a pleasantly plump Indian woman in a sari who had bitten into a scone and was licking cream and jam off her lips, a blissful expression on her face. “We’re zero for three,” she reminded Sue as they followed Quentin and Jennifer down the gravel path toward the waiting minibus. “We couldn’t find a tea shop on Saturday, we had a late lunch on Sunday, and today we didn’t have time for tea. You wouldn’t think it would be so hard, would you?”

“There, there.” Sue was using her nanny voice. “This is England. I’m sure there will be lots more opportunities for afternoon tea.”

“I sure hope so,” grumbled Lucy, climbing aboard the minibus.

Chapter Seven

W
hen Lucy took a seat on the minibus, she noticed Jennifer had spurned Autumn and was sitting with her grandfather. Autumn was sitting by herself, but when Quentin boarded, he took the seat next to her. Lucy was seated just behind him, which gave her a clear view of his pink and freckled bald spot.

Lucy knew that some women found baldness sexy—it was even fashionable for young men to shave their heads—but she wasn’t a big fan of the look. She was glad that Bill still had a full head of hair and a thick beard, albeit dusted with gray. She thought of him fondly and wondered what he was doing at home and checked her watch. He was probably at work, she decided, and thinking about lunch. The thought made her feel a bit guilty since she wasn’t home to pack that lunch for him. She wondered how he was managing with the girls, the dog, and the household chores, in addition to the remodeling job he’d taken on in one of the big shingle-style cottages on Shore Drive. The owners were very wealthy—and very demanding.

It was noisy in the minibus as the driver accelerated and turned into the road. The engine was loud and everybody was talking, comparing their experiences at Hampton Court. In the seat in front of her, Quentin was chatting with Autumn about Winchester College, and when there was a sudden drop in the general noise level, Lucy heard him offer to give her some career counseling. “It’s not easy to decide what you want to be when you grow up,” he was saying.

Ohmigosh,
she thought,
he’s up to his old tricks.
He’d used the same line with her, all those years ago, when she had taken that Victorian literature class. It all seemed foolish now, but she’d been a young mother then and had felt her sense of self slipping away as she struggled every day to meet her children’s needs. When she’d decided to go back to school, it wasn’t to satisfy her intellectual curiosity as much as to have something for herself. She’d enjoyed the course, had even liked writing papers, but what had kept her coming back week after week was the opportunity to see the handsome young professor.

It was nothing more than a crush, but he noticed her interest and invited her to lunch at the town’s poshest restaurant, the Queen Victoria Inn. Another thought popped into her head—the image of the woman in the café licking cream off her lip. Quentin had done the same thing then, and she’d found it exciting. Much to her shame, she remembered, she accepted his invitation to go to his apartment. He said he wanted to show her some photos he’d taken of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s flat in Florence. She never got a glimpse of the photos, but he had kissed her, more than once.

The memory made her squirm in her seat, earning her a curious look from Sue. “Ants in your pants?” she asked.

“I’ve got a backache.” It was true, she realized. Being a tourist was hard work, and all that walking and standing was taking a toll.

“Me too.” Sue raised her arms above her head and stretched, arching her back. “And I’m really hungry.”

Quentin overheard her and made an announcement. “I’ve made reservations for dinner tonight for all of us at Ye Olde English Roast Beef,” he told the group. “I’ve invited Emma Temple, too. I thought eating dinner together would give us all an opportunity for closure. We can share our thoughts and feelings about George’s unexpected and tragic death and, hopefully, move on.”

“I don’t know,” objected Ann Smith in a quavery voice. “There was that, well, I don’t quite remember what it was about, but there was something about English beef not being safe to eat.”

Rachel remembered. “Mad cow disease.”

“That’s right!” Autumn was eager to share the gruesome details. “You eat the meat and forty years later your brain turns to mush and you become a drooling idiot. We can’t eat there.”

“We certainly can,” said Dr. Cope. “The British government dealt very effectively with that outbreak, and British beef is now one hundred percent safe to eat.”

Laura Barfield was retying the blue scarf she had tucked into her jacket. “I know somebody who can’t give blood because he was in England during that outbreak.”

“A wise precaution, I’m sure,” admitted Dr. Cope. “But the actual chance of infection was very low, even during the height of the outbreak. You have more to fear from the flu that arrives every winter.”

“Well, then, we’ll go ahead to the steak house.” Quentin paused and, hearing a murmur of dissent, continued. “I’m sure they serve fish and chicken as well as beef.”

Tom Smith raised a hand, as if in school. “Is the dinner included in the tour or will we have to split the check?”

“Good point. We’ll split the check.” Quentin was already turning his attention back to Autumn, who was bent over her iPhone. “Those are fantastic, aren’t they? Super for e-mail.”

Autumn was focused on the screen. “I’m not e-mailing. I’m tweeting.”

“Tweeting? What’s that?”

She turned and looked at him, her expression a mixture of shock and dismay. “Don’t you know about Twitter?”

Oh, dear,
thought Lucy.
Poor Quentin. His age is showing.

When they all gathered at the long table that had been reserved for them at Ye Olde English Roast Beef, Lucy discovered Quentin was an equal-opportunity flirt. As soon as he spotted her coming through the door with her friends, he invited her to sit beside him. There was room for all four of them, so she could hardly refuse. Pulling out the chair, she noticed a couple of aged French fries curled up on the leatherette seat and brushed them off with her napkin.

Once seated, she took a look around and discovered the place had seen better days. Dated Tiffany lamps hung over the scuffed tables, the mirrors that lined the walls were streaked and dirty, and the stuffed head of an Aberdeen bull that hung over the bar seemed to have a bad case of mange, which was giving him a rather wild-eyed expression.

“The mad cow himself,” said Sue.

“I need new silverware,” said Rachel, holding up a fork for examination. If it had gone through the dishwasher, the dishwasher was in need of repair.

Lucy was checking her own place setting when Emma Temple arrived, seating herself in the last vacant seat, directly opposite Quentin. The rest of the group was arranged on Quentin’s other side: Autumn was next to him, separated from Jennifer by Laura and Dr. Cope. Will was at the end of the table and the Smiths were seated between Will and Emma. As always, Caroline was positioned protectively between her parents, which struck Lucy as slightly ridiculous. The girl was every bit as big as her father and seemed quite capable of taking care of herself.

After a few pleasantries and greetings, everyone got busy studying their menus. There was no rush. Lucy had practically learned it by heart before the waiter appeared. He didn’t seem old enough to be working—his face was spotty with pimples—but he quickly took charge.

“I’ll replace that fork for you, madam,” he said smoothly when Rachel displayed the offending piece of cutlery, and quickly moved on to the important business at hand. “Would you like to start with something from the bar?”

Once they’d all placed their orders, Quentin leaned toward Lucy in a rather intimate manner. “If I remember correctly, you’re something of an investigative reporter.”

Hearing this, Laura Barfield’s head snapped around and she stared at Lucy. Conversation had stopped and Lucy found everyone waiting for her reply. “Not really, although I do write a little bit for the Tinker’s Cove weekly newspaper, the
Pennysaver.
Pam here is married to the owner.”

“Don’t be so modest.” Quentin turned to the table at large. “Lucy cracked a case that had the police completely baffled. A murder.”

Lucy could have killed him. The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention. “It was a sad, tragic incident,” she said, “and not really suitable for dinner table conversation.”

“I quite agree,” said Laura primly. “I was brought up to avoid controversy at dinner. Religion, politics, and money were all strictly banned at my mother’s table.” She paused, turning to Emma. “How was your day?”

Emma leaned to the side, making room for the waiter to put down her glass of white wine. “Thank you for asking. I’m afraid I encountered a bit more red tape than I expected.”

“That is too bad.” Laura seemed determined to keep the polite chatter going. “It’s really the curse of the modern world, don’t you think? Life has gotten so complicated. I recently changed my Internet service, and I can’t tell you how confusing it was.”

“Too many choices—that’s the problem.” Dr. Cope was twirling his old-fashioned, waiting for everyone to be served.

“You’re exactly right,” agreed Tom Smith. “First thing I have to do when I get home is my income tax. I’m not looking forward to that!”

The waiter had set down the last glass and Quentin was on his feet. “I’d like to propose a toast to our dear friend and colleague George Temple.”

A few glances were exchanged but everyone raised their glass.

“
Requiescat in pace
.” Quentin took a big gulp of his red wine.

“Amen,” said Rachel, prompting a responsive murmur and a few nods as everyone took a swallow.

Lucy felt badly for Emma, who she suspected might rather not be reminded of her father’s death, but the young woman didn’t seem upset. She joined the others in raising her glass and downed a hearty swallow before turning to Ann Smith, who was seated beside her, and referring to the menu. “What looks good?”

The next few minutes were spent placing their orders, but when the waiter ambled off to the kitchen, Lucy seized the opportunity to ask Quentin about George Temple. “Did you know George well?”

“Not well, no,” he said, speaking slowly and making plenty of eye contact. “Although he had been at the college for some time. He arrived shortly after I started there, perhaps in the early nineties. He was middle-aged then. I think he had changed careers in midlife. He was popular with the students, and he led one of these trips every year, but he wasn’t a true academic. His knowledge was wide but not deep, if you know what I mean.” He smiled at Emma. “But that’s not to say he wasn’t a committed, caring teacher, quite competent to teach introductory-level courses. He was an adjunct, you know, not on the tenure track.”

“That’s not what I heard,” said Lucy, remembering her conversation with Pam. “I heard he was being considered for some professor’s job.”

Quentin chuckled and promptly changed the subject. “What do you think of the English newspapers?”

“Pretty racy if you ask me,” said Tom Smith with a leer. “Topless girls, right on page three.”

Ann didn’t approve. “Oh, Tom,” she said. “Not in front of—”

“The kids?” Tom finished the sentence for her. “I imagine they could teach us a few things.”

The food took a while to come, giving them all time to order a second round of drinks, which Lucy suspected might be intentional on the part of the restaurant. Quentin remained focused on Lucy, saying he’d followed her career in the
Pennysaver.

“Not much of a career, really. I don’t get to write as much as I’d like. I mostly edit the events listings.” Lucy giggled; she was tired and that second glass of wine was going straight to her head.

“And what about your family?” Quentin was doing that thing again, running his tongue over his upper lip.

“The kids are growing up. Toby is married and has a baby boy.”

Quentin’s eyebrows lifted. “Don’t tell me you’re a grandmother?”

Lucy laughed. She had to admit it was nice to have someone paying attention to her. She loved Bill, but he did tend to take her for granted.

“And your husband?”

Lucy felt that Quentin was testing the waters, and it was time to let him know these seas were definitely chilly. “Bill is keeping the home fires burning, keeping an eye on our youngest girls.”

Quentin gave her that half smile of his. “Sounds like you have the perfect family.”

Lucy thought of Elizabeth’s e-mail. “Not perfect.” Quentin leaned a bit closer, apparently taking this as a sign of encouragement. “But okay,” she added, pulling away from him.

She was relieved when he turned to his other side and began talking to Autumn. Conversation was lagging, despite Laura’s gallant efforts at polite small talk, and more than one member of the tour was yawning when the waiter finally began delivering their dinners. Dr. Cope and Quentin had stuck to their guns and ordered steaks, which looked to be a mistake since the meat was overcooked. Ann Smith’s broiled Dover sole, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with the flame and was still pink and glistening. When she asked the waiter to take it back for another pass under the broiler, he warned her that the chef would be insulted.

Ann wasn’t about to insist. “Oh, dear, I guess it’s all right.” She was picking up her fork when her husband snatched the plate away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told the waiter. “This hasn’t been properly cooked.”

The kid took the plate, perching it dangerously close to the edge of the tray, while continuing to distribute the other dishes. He finished passing out the chicken and pasta dishes the others had ordered before taking the fish back to the kitchen.

The younger members of the party immediately began eating, but the others sat waiting for the waiter to bring Ann’s plate back.

“Please don’t wait for me,” she urged. “Your food will get cold.”

“Have some of my pasta,” offered Rachel, picking up her bread and butter plate and spooning some pasta primavera onto it.

“We didn’t get any rolls,” observed Lucy.

Sue had taken a bite of chicken, then put down her fork. “This chicken is weird. It’s some sort of processed meat.”

“Well, the steak is delicious,” insisted Quentin, chewing energetically.

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” said Dr. Cope.

“English food isn’t supposed to be very good,” said Emma, carefully cutting away the brown edges of a piece of broccoli.

The waiter returned with Ann’s sole, which was now as brown and tough as a cedar shingle. “Can you get us some bread or rolls?” asked Lucy.