Till Death Do Us Tart (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 4) Page 8

  “She flip out, ma’am! First time I see that! She is always so quiet, you know, ma’am, so good to her mother, but this time, she go crazy!” Riza laughed, her eyes bright with malicious enjoyment. “Miss Mary, she stand up and shout back. ‘I’M SICK AND TIRED OF BEING YOUR SLAVE,’ she say. And then she scream, ‘I HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!’ and she run out of the room.”

  “Really?” My mother sounded absolutely delighted. “And this was just the night before the fête? I wonder if—”

  “Mother.”

  She whirled around and saw us standing at the bottom of the steps. Then her gaze slid past us just as I heard the sound of an engine coming up the drive. I turned around myself to see a pale blue Mini Cooper roll down the driveway and come to a halt in front of the steps. Mary and Audrey got out of the car.

  “My goodness, this is quite a party here,” observed Audrey with a laugh.

  “Oh, we just came to see how Mary was doing,” said my mother glibly as she came down the stairs to join us. I saw Riza scurry quickly off into the interior of the house.

  My mother looked at Mary soberly. “My dear, I haven’t had a chance to say how very sorry I am about your mother. Please accept my condolences.”

  The Old Biddies gathered around and repeated the sentiments. I restrained the urge to roll my eyes. Honestly! I couldn’t believe their brazen hypocrisy when they had just been snooping around, trying to find evidence to accuse the poor girl of murder!

  Mary murmured her thanks, looking slightly bemused. “Thank you… I… it’s not really sunk in yet. Even in the solicitor’s office, when they were discussing Mummy’s will…”

  Mabel cleared her throat delicately. “I suppose your mother has left you amply cared for?”

  Mary flushed. “Yes… I knew about her will from before… I’m the sole beneficiary of her estate.”

  The Old Biddies waggled their eyebrows at each other.

  I said quickly, hoping Mary hadn’t seen them: “Is the college going to hold a memorial service?”

  “Yes, I think so—but just a small one in the college chapel.” Mary sighed. “They were all so shocked when I told them this morning. No one could believe that Mummy had died of a heart attack so suddenly—”

  “I don’t suppose there was any question that it was a heart attack?” said my mother.

  Mary stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, she doesn’t mean anything by it,” I said quickly. “Um… anyway, I think we should leave you now—”

  “Mary, you’ve got to show them the note,” said Audrey urgently.

  The Old Biddies pounced. “What note?”

  Mary hesitated, biting her lip.

  “Mary…” Audrey pleaded again. “You can’t just ignore it. You really ought to be reporting it to the police. Ask Gemma and the others. I’m sure they’ll agree with me.”

  Mary swallowed, then said, “This morning, before we went to see Mr Grimsby, Aunt Audrey and I were in Mummy’s room—you know, just to… Anyway, I was tidying up her dressing table and I found a note tucked into the top drawer.”

  “A note? You mean like a message?” I asked.

  “Well, not a normal message. It was—” Mary swallowed again. “It was saying the most horrible things.”

  “Can we see?” asked Mabel eagerly.

  Mary stuck her hand into her handbag and withdrew a piece of paper. Mabel grabbed it and the Old Biddies pored over it. I saw their faces change. Then they thrust it at me. My mother peered over my shoulder as I spread the paper out and slowly read the contents.

  There were a series of words spread across the page but they were not written or even typed. Instead, they were made up of printed letters which had been neatly cut out of some magazine or newspaper and stuck on, one by one. There was something a bit creepy about that in itself, even before you read the words that the letters spelt out. In crude, vicious language, the sender had called Clare Eccleston some of the foulest names you could call a woman and added that she would soon be getting what she deserved.

  At the bottom of the message was a picture of Dame Eccleston which must have been cut out of a University publication, for she was in her formal senior academic gown—except that her face had been disfigured, the eyes scratched out with savage ferocity and a big black “X” drawn across the mouth. There was no signature at the bottom.

  I shivered. There was no question about it. Somebody out there had hated Clare Eccleston—maybe even hated her enough to murder her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I took a shuddering breath. Even though it was not directed at me, there was something shocking and disturbing about such a letter. The hatred and vitriol practically oozed off the page and even touching the note made me feel a bit tainted. I handed it hastily back to Mary.

  “When did this arrive?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure—I think it was last Friday morning, the day before the fête. I remember bringing the mail in and there was an unmarked envelope with Mummy’s name on it. I saw her open it and she looked a bit funny, but then she put it away and didn’t say anything, so I didn’t dare ask her about it.”

  “Do you know if your mother’s ever received a note like this before?”

  Mary frowned. “She did get some unpleasant letters in college last year.”

  “Same in style? With these cut-out letters?”

  “No, those were different. They were typed on a computer… and the college authorities did find who had sent them in the end. It was a couple of students playing a nasty prank. They were disciplined and suspended for a term.”

  I looked again at the note held in Mary’s hands. The paper itself was just the typical kind of cheap photocopy paper that you would get in any printer. It gave no clue as to the sender.

  “I think Audrey is right and you should show this to the police, Mary,” I said. “They might be able to trace who sent it.”

  “But… but why? I mean, Mummy is dead now so it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  “It’s just so horrible!” said Audrey, her face distressed. “Someone who could write something so nasty—It just suggests a… a disturbed mind. I’m worried for you, dear. What if they target you next?”

  “Besides, it could have something to do with your mother’s mur—I mean, death,” said Mabel.

  Audrey looked startled and Mary said in a scared voice, “What do you mean?” She turned to my mother. “You were asking me about Mummy just now—why do you think she might not have had a heart attack? What are you all trying to say?”

  “We just think someone might have had a grudge against your mother, dear,” said Ethel gently.

  Florence nodded. “Yes, and they might have meant her harm.”

  Mary paled. “You mean—” She shook her head violently. “No! No! Mummy had a heart attack! I was there—I saw her! And we know she was trying to get her pills—”

  “Ah, but that’s just it,” said Mabel quickly. “We don’t know that for sure. Gemma told us that you checked and the tablets in her pillbox were untouched, so…” She trailed off suggestively.

  Mary shook her head again. “No, I’m sure Mummy just had a heart attack! And as for the note—I’m sure it’s just a silly thing. Just like those prank letters in college last year! It’s nothing to bother the police about!” she said vehemently.

  There was an awkward silence following this outburst. Then Audrey cleared her throat and said, resorting to the usual English solution for every social problem:

  “Er… would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you, we really must be going,” I said quickly, before my mother or the Old Biddies could answer. I dragged my phone out of my pocket to check the time on the screen. “Heavens, look at the time! I have to—”

  “Oh, that’s little… Muesli, isn’t it?” said Audrey as she caught sight of my phone screensaver. “What a gorgeous shot!”

  She smiled down at the screen which showed Muesli sitting on a windowsill, her
head cocked to one side, her green eyes bright and curious, and one little white paw raised as if she was waving.

  I gave a sheepish laugh. “Yes, that’s Muesli doing one of her tricks. I’ve taught her to high-five.”

  “That’s delightful!” said Audrey. “In fact, I noticed at the fête that she is a very outgoing little cat. Hmm, I wonder…” She looked at me speculatively. “Would you be interested in having Muesli join the Therapy Cats programme?”

  “Therapy Cats?” I said, giving her a wry smile. “That’s not what I think it means, is it? I mean, there are times when I think Muesli needs therapy but I was hoping no one would notice.”

  Audrey gave a little laugh. “It’s a new initiative of the Cotswolds Cat Fancy Club. You’ve heard of pet therapy, haven’t you? It’s been shown that spending time with animals has huge health benefits—not just the medical, like lowering your blood pressure—but also things like relieving stress, reducing loneliness and depression, and improving social interactions. It was my idea, actually,” she said with shy pride. “There’s a team in Oxfordshire which takes dogs into places but I knew there weren’t any visiting cats and I thought—why not? And the cat club committee supported my idea. So the programme has been going for a few months now but we’re still actively looking for volunteers.”

  “How lovely,” said my mother. “I think it’s a marvellous idea and I’m sure Muesli would make the perfect therapy cat. She is such a friendly, inquisitive little thing—I’m sure she would love going to visit hospitals and rest homes and such.”

  Yeah, and cause mayhem wherever she went, I thought. “She’s very naughty, you know,” I warned Audrey.

  Audrey twittered. “Oh, the naughty ones are the best sometimes! Why don’t you just bring her along for an assessment?” She added in a lower voice, darting an apologetic look at Mary, “Clare would normally be doing the assessments as she was the Programme Leader and she had far more experience with cats, of course, but since the… um… I’ve taken over the responsibilities.”

  And thank goodness, I thought. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if my mother had to endure more of Dame Eccleston’s contemptuous comments about Muesli.

  We arranged a time on Thursday and then I hustled my mother and the Old Biddies down the drive before they could make any more suggestive comments about Clare Eccleston’s death. My mother had parked her car just outside the property and I left her and the Old Biddies there, conferring in excited whispers, whilst I went back down the side lane to retrieve my bicycle. When I returned, I found my mother alone.

  “Where are the Old Bid—where are Mabel and the others?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’ve gone off in Mabel’s car. She’d parked it around the corner. There’s an amateur lawn bowls game on the village green that they wanted to get back for. Shall I give you a lift home, darling?”

  I secured my bicycle on the bike rack at the back of the car and got into the passenger seat.

  “Well! I think there have been some very exciting developments, don’t you?” my mother said brightly as we started the drive back to Oxford. “Mabel says we might have picked up some Very Important Clues to the murder!”

  I gave her an exasperated look. “Mother, we have no idea yet if Dame Eccleston’s death was suspicious or not—there could be a perfectly logical, innocent explanation for everything so far. You and Mabel can’t just go around telling everyone it’s murder! You’ll start all sorts of rumours, especially in the village, and frighten people.”

  “But, darling, there is something suspicious about Clare Eccleston’s death!” my mother insisted. “I think the police are being remarkably foolish to accept the word of a fuddy-duddy village doctor.”

  Although she said “police”, I knew she really meant Devlin and I bristled slightly. “There was no reason to suspect any kind of foul play at the fête. The police did exactly what they ought to have. You can’t expect them to treat every sudden death as murder. People drop dead of heart attacks all the time.”

  “Yes, but there are just too many odd things in this case, darling. And Mabel says that most murders are committed by someone known to the victim—often members of the family who have something to gain!”

  I groaned. “You’re not still thinking that it could be Mary? It’s a ridiculous suggestion, Mother! You saw her just now—the poor girl is distraught.”

  “Oh, but darling, I told you—she could simply be a very good actress! She has obviously come into a very large sum of money with her mother’s death… and it sounds like she knew she would be the sole beneficiary of the will. What’s more…” My mother paused dramatically. “You heard what Riza the maid said!”

  “She just said that Dame Eccleston and Mary had a row the night before the fête. Lots of mothers and daughters have arguments—”

  “Yes, yes, but Mary said that she wished her mother was dead!”

  “But that doesn’t mean anything! It’s the kind of thing you say when you’re angry. I remember when I was thirteen, I used to—” I broke off guiltily.

  My mother, however, hadn’t noticed. She was continuing blithely, “And Mary was very reluctant to show that note to the police—I wonder why? She kept insisting that her mother must have died naturally of a heart attack. It all seems very suspicious to me.”

  “Mother, why are you all so against Mary? She seems such a sweet, nice girl—”

  “Murders aren’t just done by unpleasant people, you know,” said my mother. “Sometimes, the killer is someone we like—but that doesn’t change what they did.”

  Grrr. Don’t you just hate it when your mother is right?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Darling, why don’t you come with me to the hairdresser this afternoon?” my mother asked as we arrived back at the house.

  I looked at her in surprise. “Me? Why?”

  “Oh, I just thought it would be nice for you to get your hair done. You know—have a proper wash and blow dry. It’ll be my treat.” My mother looked at my short pixie bob with disapproval. “It’s just so unfeminine having such short hair… but maybe Antoine can put a bit of curl in it or something.”

  I touched my hair defensively. “My hair is fine as it is.”

  “Why don’t you just let him have a look, darling? He’s such a splendid talent, you know, and in his hands, you’ll look your absolute best!”

  I gave her a suspicious look. “Why is it suddenly so important for me to look my absolute best?”

  My mother opened her eyes wide. “Well, don’t you want to look your best, darling?”

  “Um… well, yeah, of course. But…”

  That was enough encouragement for my mother. Somehow, I found myself bundled into the car after lunch and accompanying her into town, where she presented me to Antoine with the sheepish embarrassment of someone presenting a badly matted dog at the groomer’s.

  “I know it’s shockingly short, Antoine, but you’re such a magician—do you think you could do anything?” My mother clasped her hands hopefully.

  “Mais bien sûr!” said Antoine, whose own hair resembled a cross between a bird’s nest and a Japanese flower arrangement. I couldn’t stop staring at it in the mirror. If that was an example of his “talent”, I shuddered to think what he would do to me.

  But as it turned out, I was pleasantly surprised, and when I was released from the salon chair some thirty minutes later, I couldn’t help admiring myself in the mirror. Antoine had given me a quick shampoo and rinse, then artfully blow-dried my hair so that it framed my face in the most flattering way, making my brown eyes seem larger and my neck graceful and slender.

  “Voila!” he said, taking my nylon cape off with a flourish.

  “Thanks, Antoine, it looks great,” I said, turning to eye my reflection this way and that.

  “And now, la maman…” he said, escorting my mother to the chair I had vacated.

  My mother was “getting her greys done” and so would be quite a while. I had plenty of time
to kill. The hair salon was situated on George Street, right in the busy commercial heart of Oxford, and I decided to take a stroll around the city rather than sit in the stuffy waiting room. I hadn’t had much chance to ramble around the streets of Oxford since I’d returned to England—working at the tearoom didn’t give me much time off, and if I did come into town, it certainly wasn’t to window shop! But my forced wait for my mother meant that, for once, I didn’t have anything else to do, anywhere else to be, and I enjoyed my leisurely stroll around the city centre. I made my way through the hordes of tourists and down the pedestrianised central thoroughfare of Cornmarket Street, then into the bustling 18th-century Covered Market, where you could find a traditional fishmonger rubbing shoulders with a designer hat shop, an old-fashioned cobbler alongside an Oriental boutique.

  Eventually, I wandered into Turl Street, a narrow cobbled-stoned lane full of historic charm, lined on both sides by several of the smaller Oxford colleges, as well as a selection of quaint shops and boutiques. I was delighted to see that some of these were still the same as from my student days; in fact, a few—such as the bespoke shoe shop and the traditional gentleman’s tailor—had probably been here for a few centuries!

  Just as I was reaching the end of the lane where Turl Street joined the High Street, I noticed a shop on my right and my steps slowed. It was a second-hand bookstore, specialising in rare and antiquarian books, and the shop window showed an inviting display of leather-bound books stacked next to an antique globe. What made me pause, however, was the logo on the sign above the door, accompanied by the words: “Edwin Perkins, proprietor.”

  I remembered seeing the same logo and sign at the village fête—there had been a second-hand book stall there—and I also remembered the pompous middle-aged man who had run up to Mary’s car just before we left the fête. She had called him “Edwin”… could this have been the same man?

  I went into the store. Inside the doorway, I paused, breathing deeply. Ahhh. There was nothing like the smell of books, particularly old books—that magical combination of oaky aged paper, the rich robustness of leather, the silkiness of binding, together with the fruity topnotes of faded ink, all combining to produce the perfect bouquet. And in here, you didn’t just smell it—you were immersed in it. It was a tiny shop, the walls lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves and the centre holding tables heaped with more books, stacked haphazardly against each other.