Till Death Do Us Tart (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4) Page 2

  “Poisoning my cats,” she snapped. “Oh, yes, I know what you’re all trying to do—all the tricks used to sabotage me. Everyone knows my cats are the best in the show and people will stop at nothing to prevent me from winning.”

  I stared at her. Okay, this was a crazy cat lady in person.

  She wagged her finger at me. She had a weird pale lavender nail polish which made the skin on her hands look sallow and sickly. “A young woman like you, resorting to such disgusting, devious methods—you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

  “Now, look here…” I said, starting to get annoyed. Then I stopped. Her hands were clenched tightly together and her face was pale, and I realised that there was genuine fear in her eyes. I felt a wave of compassion. Whatever her reasons, she was not being unpleasant on purpose. This woman was terrified.

  I softened my voice. “I promise you, I’m not trying to do anything to harm you. I’m just here to show my cat… look, this is her. Her name’s Muesli.” I pointed to Muesli in her cage.

  The woman hesitated, then relaxed slightly, although her eyes still darted anxiously around. She sidled closer and inclined her head towards mine.

  “You have to help me,” she said urgently. “Nobody seems to believe me but it’s true.”

  “What’s true?” I said, completely confused now.

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “There have been attempts to kill me. Somebody wants me dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stared at the woman in front of me. Was she serious? Or was she completely off her trolley?

  “Er… um… are you sure?” I said at last.

  She jerked back and glared at me. “Of course I’m sure! Do you think I would joke about a thing like that?”

  “Well, it’s just… why would anyone want to kill you?” I asked helplessly. “It seems a bit incredible—”

  “So you don’t believe me either!” She drew herself up to her full height, quivering with indignation. “Fine! But just you wait… one of these days, my body will turn up horribly murdered and then you’ll be sorry you doubted me!”

  She gave me another glare then turned her back on me and began talking to the Siamese cats in a baby voice, to which they responded with ear-splitting yowls and cries.

  I stared at her for a moment longer. Bloody weirdo. Then I heaved a sigh and turned back to my own table. Audrey Simmons from the village fête committee had arrived while I was distracted by the Siamese cats and was now chatting to my mother. I’d met Audrey once or twice before: a pleasant, mousy woman who seemed to be perpetually volunteering for things and running around being a general dogsbody for everyone. She was the Vicar’s sister and lived with him at the Vicarage; in fact, it was at the Vicar’s recent wedding that I’d met her for the first time. The Vicar was in his forties and everyone had expected him to remain an eternal bachelor. His engagement had come as a complete surprise and had provided the senior residents of Meadowford with weeks—months—of pleasurable gossip.

  My mother gestured to me as I joined them. “…and of course you must know my daughter, Gemma.”

  Audrey smiled at me vaguely. “Yes, of course—you own the Little Stables Tearoom. I haven’t had a chance to pop in yet but I hear so many people talk about it. Your scones are the best in Oxfordshire, I hear!”

  I flushed with pleasure. “Thank you. You can try the scones here at the fête actually—I’ve donated several batches to the Cream Tea Stall.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Audrey. “Mabel Cooke and her friends are manning that stall. They were doing brisk business, I can tell you! I hope there will still be some left when I go back later.” She glanced at the table next to us with the Siamese cats, then lowered her voice. “By the way, Gemma, I saw you talking to Theresa Bell. Don’t worry if she… er… makes some accusations. She can have quite a… uh… vivid imagination.”

  I grinned. “Thanks. I wasn’t quite sure… She did seem very… uh… ‘worried’. So is there no basis for her fears?”

  “Well, there was quite a fuss at the last show—she claimed that someone was trying to poison her cats’ water—”

  A contemptuous snort came from the table on our right. I realised that there was now a large, middle-aged woman standing next to the empty cage with the white cushion. She had obviously been listening to our conversation.

  Audrey gave an exclamation. “Oh, how remiss of me! I haven’t introduced you to my very dear friend, Clare Eccleston.” She gave a little laugh. “Or I should really say, Dame Clare Eccleston.”

  “Dame Eccleston?” said my mother. “Not the Dame Eccleston who is the Tutor for Admissions at St Cecilia’s College in Oxford? I’ve heard my husband mention her.”

  The large woman turned around to face us. “Yes, I am she.”

  She had a deep, almost manly voice, a long, aristocratic nose, and piercing dark eyes. Her hair was steel grey and also drawn up in a bun, although nothing like Theresa Bell’s wispy mess. No, this was a sophisticated coiffure, piled atop her head and held in place by a tortoiseshell comb. She was dressed in a silk blouse, with a high ruffled collar and a cameo brooch at her throat, and looked as if she belonged in some severe Victorian portrait.

  As she came forwards, I realised that she was a very large woman—not just in terms of weight but also in terms of presence. A very grand dame indeed. I could just imagine dogs, no matter how big and ferocious, instantly dropping on their bums if she said “SIT” (and probably quite a few humans too!). Next to her domineering presence, Audrey Simmons faded like an insipid watercolour. She was speaking in a faint voice now, saying something about Dame Eccleston’s champion show cats.

  “Oh, where are they?” I said, trying to show friendly interest. I peered into the cage next to us. “Are they underneath that big cushion?”

  Dame Eccleston gave me an icy look. “That cushion, as you call it, is my prize Persian, Champion Camilla Diamonds Are Forever.”

  Oops.

  “Oh! Sorry…” I stammered. “It wasn’t moving so I thought…”

  She reached into the cage and lifted out a fluffy white cat with a snub nose and a sweet, placid expression. She turned and glared at me. “Persians are renowned for their serene, dignified demeanours. They do not make fools of themselves, running around and climbing everywhere or caterwauling constantly, unlike some cat breeds I could name.” She glanced with disdain over at the Siamese cats in their cage, raising her voice slightly so as to be sure to be overheard.

  “How dare you!” cried Theresa. “I’ll have you know that the Siamese are descended from the royal felines who acted as sacred guardians in the ancient Thai temples. They are also the most loyal, affectionate, and intelligent of cat breeds—whereas everyone knows that Persians are the stupidest cats in the world!”

  “Now, now, ladies…” said Audrey hastily, stepping between them. “I’m sure every breed is wonderful in its own way. That is why we’re here today—to celebrate the marvellous diversity in the cat world.”

  Dame Eccleston sniffed, then turned her attention to our cage. She peered down her long nose at Muesli.

  “And what—may I ask—is that?” She drew back in disgust. “Audrey, I cannot believe the committee is letting common riff-raff into the show!”

  My mother bristled. “Muesli is not riff-raff! She is a… a rare prized tabby!”

  “Rare prized tabby, my foot!” Dame Eccleston laughed, a high-pitched sound like a horse neighing. “That cat is a common garden variety moggie! Absolutely no breeding or quality whatsoever!”

  My mother got very red in the face and snapped, “Perhaps you are not qualified to recognise real quality when you see it but I’m sure the judge will have no such problems!”

  Audrey gave a nervous laugh and said quickly, “Ahh… Clare, have you got anything to donate to the Cake & Jam Stall?” She held up a wicker basket that was slung over one arm. There were various pots of jam and preserves, as well as a few plates of cakes and buns nestled at the bottom. “
I’m just collecting things to take over.”

  “Oh, yes! We do,” came a small voice.

  I realised with surprise that there was a plump young woman standing behind Dame Eccleston. She had been so quiet that I hadn’t noticed her until now. From the strong physical resemblance, I guessed that this must be a daughter and I was proven right a moment later when the girl said softly:

  “I’ve baked Mummy’s favourite Victoria sponge and some jam tarts for the stall. Here, let me get them for you…”

  She bent over a picnic hamper and lifted out the ultimate classic British cake: a beautiful round of double-layered golden sponge cake, with home-made strawberry jam and snowy white whipped cream sandwiched between the top and bottom layers, all finished off with sliced fresh strawberries to garnish and a dainty dusting of icing sugar on top. The jam tarts that followed looked equally delicious, their scalloped pastry edges surrounding a rich centre of dark red jam filled with plump fruit pieces. The heavenly smell of buttery baking wafted over.

  “My… those look fabulous, Mary,” said Audrey, eyeing them appreciatively. “I’m sure they’ll be snapped up immediately at the stall!” She lifted the wicker basket closer. “Do you think you could balance the cake on top of these jars?”

  “There are two actually,” said Mary, lifting out a second Victoria sponge cake. “I might be able to squeeze them both in next to each other—”

  “One,” Dame Eccleston spoke up. “We are only donating one.”

  Her daughter looked at her in dismay. “Oh, but Mummy—”

  “Are you stupid, girl? I told you before we left the house—the second cake is for ourselves. There is no other cake here to match the quality of ours and I am certainly not going to the stall to buy a slice of my own cake for tea.”

  “But Mummy—are you sure you should be having any?” Mary said anxiously. “I mean, remember… your heart… Dr Foster did say that you shouldn’t eat so much rich, creamy—”

  “Poppycock!” said Dame Eccleston. “What does that old fossil know? I shall eat what I like and enjoy doing it.”

  “Clare… Mary is right,” said Audrey feebly. “It’s really not advisable. In fact, Dr Foster was saying that it would be a good idea perhaps if you lost some weight…” She faltered as her friend gave her a withering glare.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dame Eccleston drew herself up to her full height and said in a booming voice, “The women in my family have always been large. There is no shame in that! And Mary is continuing the tradition—she always requires the largest size available, at least an Extra-Large. In fact, sometimes they don’t make the trousers big enough for her hips!” She gave a whoop of laughter. Glancing at her daughter, she barked, “Isn’t that right?”

  Mary flushed red to the roots of her hair as several people in the tables around us turned to stare at her. “I… I… I think so, Mummy,” she whispered, looking like she wanted to die.

  My heart went out to her. No girl wants to have her dress size discussed in public, especially a larger, curvy girl like Mary. I couldn’t believe her mother’s insensitivity.

  “In fact…” Dame Eccleston indicated one of the Victoria sponge cakes, obviously deciding to make a point. “I’ve decided that I don’t want to wait until afternoon tea to have the cake. Cut me a piece now,” she commanded.

  Mary Eccleston bit her lip and something flashed in her dark eyes. For a split second, the submissive girl was replaced by an angry young woman, her face filled with bitterness and resentment, then she blinked and the impression was gone. In fact, I wondered if I had imagined it.

  She lowered her head submissively. “Yes, Mummy.” She shot Audrey an embarrassed glance. “I’m sorry,” she added in an undertone.

  “That’s quite all right,” Audrey reassured the girl. “One cake for the stall is already a generous donation. I quite understand your mother wanting to keep one for herself.”

  “Would you like a piece too?” Mary asked her. “You always come and have tea with us in the afternoon anyway, Aunt Audrey…”

  “Oh, all right.” Audrey gave a guilty smile. “I shouldn’t really, but yes, I’d love a small slice now. I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning and I’m ravenous!”

  Mary carefully placed one of the Victoria sponge cakes into Audrey’s basket, then turned back to the other one on the table. She nearly collided with Theresa Bell who had drifted over from her own table and was now eyeing the Victoria sponge cake greedily.

  “Oh! I’m sorry…” Mary hesitated, then said, “Would you like some cake too, Theresa?”

  The older woman sniffed and hunched a shoulder. “No, thank you. I had better not.”

  “Probably worried there’s poison in it!” guffawed Dame Eccleston.

  Theresa glared at her. “It is no laughing matter! I am being victimised in the most dreadful manner.”

  “What a lot of nonsense!” said Dame Eccleston scornfully.

  “It is not nonsense!” cried Theresa, trembling with anger and indignation. “I know that someone is after me! I know someone tried to poison my poor Moo-Goo and Yum-Yum! And… I know it had to be you!” she hissed suddenly, narrowing her eyes at the other woman. “You were the only person close enough to me at the last show. I know you’d do anything to stop my cats from winning!”

  Audrey looked around desperately for some way to distract them. I felt sorry for her and stepped in.

  “That Victoria sponge looks absolutely delicious,” I said to Mary Eccleston. “We have it on the menu at my tearoom and it’s always very popular, although I must say, yours looks a lot lighter than ours. Do you follow a particular recipe?”

  The girl looked grateful for my interruption. “Yes, it’s one that’s been in my family for generations. Would… would you like a slice? And your mother too?”

  I looked at her in pleasant surprise. “Oh, thanks—that’s really kind of you. Yeah, I’d love a taste.”

  Things calmed down a bit and peace was restored as Mary cut the slices and passed them around. Audrey sat down on one of the canvas chairs next to Dame Eccleston and invited my mother to sit down next to her. I leaned against the table and took a large mouthful of the cake. It was as delicious as it looked: the vanilla sponge was moist and fluffy, the strawberries and jam filling sweet and luscious, and the fresh whipped cream bursting out of the sides of the cake sandwich.

  Over Mary’s shoulder, I could see Theresa Bell pretending to fuss over her cat cage, all the while eyeing us enviously. I felt slightly sorry for the woman—she was obviously desperate to have a taste of the cake but was too stubborn to back down from her ridiculous claims of persecution.

  “This is absolutely delicious, Mary,” I said, licking the jam and cream off my fork appreciatively. “I might have to beg you for a recipe.”

  The girl flushed with pleasure. “Oh, of course…”

  “The home-made strawberry jam makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” said Audrey, beaming. “I know you can grow strawberries in greenhouses, but really, I don’t know how you manage—”

  “You need Joseph,” Dame Eccleston said. “I have told you time and time again, Audrey—you need to get Joseph to come and redo the Vicarage gardens.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure they need that much work,” Audrey protested gently. “I was thinking maybe just a bit of re-bedding in the borders—”

  “The gardens need to be redone. Completely,” declared Dame Eccleston. “Ring Joseph on Monday and organise for him to go to the Vicarage. And tell him I want the borders redone like ours at Eccleston House.”

  “I—” Audrey started to protest again, then sighed. “I suppose you know best, Clare.” Hastily, she stood up and put down her empty plate. “Now, I’d better get going and take these things to the Cake Stall.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said impulsively, licking the last bits of cream from my fork. “I want to pop out and get a drink.”

  Leaving my mother finishing off her cake next to Dame Eccleston and hoping t
hat they could remain civil to each other, I followed Audrey out of the pavilion tent. It had been hot and stuffy in there and I took a grateful breath of the cooler, fresh air outside. I let Audrey hurry off whilst I took a slower route to the refreshment tent, enjoying the sights and sounds of the fête.

  It felt almost like stepping back in time—there was still the bouncy castle full of screaming children, the hoopla games and apple bobbing; there was the Hand-knitted Crafts Stall and antique knick-knacks, the Largest Vegetable competition and the lucky hamper raffle, the shaggy Shetland ponies giving rides around the green, the garlands of British flags—miniature Union Jacks—strung across the stalls and fluttering in the breeze… and most of all, there was still that wonderful sense of camaraderie, the sense of a local community coming together to have fun and raise funds for the village. (This year, they were hoping to raise enough to renovate the school library.) Everywhere I looked, I could see neighbours enjoying a good gossip and tourists avidly photographing this slice of English country life.

  As I turned a corner, I saw my best friend standing behind a stall displaying several of her paintings. Cassie was a brilliant artist but unfortunately, like most artists, found that talent alone didn’t quite pay the bills—so she worked at my tearoom most of the time and painted on the side. Still, it was really nice to see her in her element, sharing her work with the public. She was beaming now as she wrapped up a canvas for a young couple with a pram; I caught her eye and waved but didn’t stop.

  A bit beyond her was the Cream Tea Stall—the stalwart of a traditional village fête—selling cups of hot tea and freshly baked scones, accompanied by lashings of jam and clotted cream. Four little old ladies stood behind the table there, busily taking orders and serving a long queue of people. They were (secretly) called the “Old Biddies” by Cassie and me, and were exactly the sort of bossy, meddling, nosy old aunts that everyone dreaded having… except that I had to admit that they’d grown on me. In fact, I thought of Mabel Cooke and her friends, Glenda, Florence, and Ethel, more often now with affection than irritation.