English Tea Murder Read online

  Chapter Ten

  There was definitely a different atmosphere in the breakfast room Wednesday morning. Lucy noticed it as soon as she and Sue entered. Instead of the usual hushed silence, there was a lively buzz of conversation. When she seated herself and glanced about, she noticed that everyone from the tour was there, except Quentin and, of course, Emma, who had had to catch an early flight back to the United States. This was a definite departure from the usual order of things—Autumn, Will, and Jennifer had taken to skipping breakfast the last couple of mornings, presumably so they could sleep in as long as possible. But today all three were gathered at a table, chirping away as bright as birds.

  “Am I hallucinating or is something different?” asked Lucy as the waitress brought their pot of coffee and filled their cups.

  Sue was lifting her cup. “I guess they’re excited about going to Brighton.”

  Lucy took a sip of coffee and considered. The itinerary for the day was a bus trip to the famous seaside town, where they would tour the Royal Pavilion. Lucy knew a bit about the town from reading English mysteries: It featured a honky-tonk pier as well as the Pavilion, which was an architectural marvel built as a private pleasure palace by some prince. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said. “It’s like some big cloud has lifted.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think it’s because Emma’s gone?”

  “Could be, but I think it’s more likely they’re excited about the roller coaster.” Sue was refilling her cup. “I can’t say I share their enthusiasm. It sounds hideous: a fusty old historical building and an amusement park. It’s not really my sort of thing.”

  “There’s shopping, too.” Lucy had checked her guidebook. “Adorable boutiques in an area known as the Lanes.”

  Sue perked up, causing Lucy to wonder if it was the caffeine or the possibility of more shopping. Pam and Lucy joined them, and the waitress announced today’s breakfast was egg, bacon, and sausage.

  “Oh, my, that’s a lot of protein,” said Pam.

  “Fat, you mean,” said Sue. “Just toast for me.”

  Lucy was ready for a change. “I’ll have the egg and sausage, but no bacon.”

  “Bran cereal for me,” said Rachel.

  “I’m going for the whole kit and caboodle,” declared Pam. “It looks like we have a busy day ahead of us.” She drank some coffee. “They say Brighton is known for its fish-and-chips shops.”

  “And the candy—Brighton rock.” Lucy was watching as Quentin made his entrance, pausing in the doorway before joining the three students at their table. Will and Jennifer reacted as Lucy expected, straightening up and giving him polite smiles. He was a professor after all, and they were hoping to earn a couple of credits on this trip. Autumn, however, kept her elbows on the table and gave him a slow smile, as if they shared a secret.

  Quentin didn’t sit down, however, but picked up a spoon and tapped his glass, causing conversation to cease.

  “Just a quick announcement. We will depart by minibus, or minicoach as they call it here, at precisely nine o’clock, so don’t be late.” He waved a warning finger, which Autumn seemed to find hilarious. He raised an eyebrow in her direction and continued. “Also, on a more serious note, I’m sure you know that Emma Temple has left our little group and is now returning to the States. As far as I know, the family is not planning a funeral service, but President Chapman has asked me to inform you that the college will be holding a memorial service on April third, the Friday after we return. She—and I join her in this—hope you will all be able to attend.”

  The silence that followed this somber announcement was broken by a loud guffaw, and everyone turned to see Tom Smith clapping a hand over his mouth. His wife, Ann, was glaring at him and he quickly apologized. “Sorry. I know that was terribly inappropriate. I was thinking of something amusing that happened yesterday.”

  Ann did her best to smile, as if she was also recalling the incident. “Yes, we saw the most proper British gentleman on the Tube yesterday, you know the type, in a suit and tie and even an umbrella and a bowler hat, and he had a big piece of newspaper stuck to his shoe!”

  She and Tom shared a rather forced laugh, but all they got from the others was a scattering of fleeting smiles. Their story struck Lucy as false; when she left the family at the museum, they hardly seemed to be in a mood to notice such a sight, much less find the least bit of humor in it. But maybe she was wrong, she admitted to herself as the waitress set down a plate loaded with the usual egg and two plump sausages. If she’d learned anything in this life, it was that people often behaved strangely and in ways you didn’t expect.

  “How’s the sausage?” asked Rachel, digging into her bran flakes. “It doesn’t look like our sausage.”

  Indeed it didn’t. It was a richer brown color and plumper. Lucy cut a piece, finding it firmer than she expected, and popped it into her mouth. “Not as fatty-tasting and with a hint of spice, nutmeg maybe.” She chewed. “It’s good. Different, but good.”

  Sue was pushing her chair away from the table and rising. “I don’t know about you guys, but I need to get myself organized for the day,” she said, glancing at the sunlight streaming through the window set high in the basement wall. “Don’t forget your sunblock!”

  “Sunblock?” mused Pam when she’d gone. “Who brings sunblock to England?”

  “Sue.” Lucy was polishing off her second sausage. “Only Sue.”

  As always, traffic was heavy and the minicoach progressed with stops and starts through London. The sun made it stuffy in the bus, and Lucy nodded off, waking to find they had reached open countryside and were passing rolling fields divided by hedgerows. This was the England she’d seen so often in movies, generally with a red-coated party of hunters on horseback racing after a pack of baying hounds. Foxhunting had been outlawed, however, so today the hunters were only in her imagination and the horses were grazing peacefully in lush green fields.

  She watched the passing scene, noticing how the sky became brighter and the landscape seemed to open up, somehow seeming airier, as they passed a road sign indicating the turn to Brighton. Soon they were winding their way through narrow streets, past shops and houses, until they arrived at the bus drop-off by the Brighton Pier. There they disembarked and gathered on the sidewalk as Quentin fussed about, keeping his troops in order.

  “It’s a short walk to the Pavilion, which we will tour as a group, and then I will dismiss you to spend the rest of the day as you wish. The bus will pick us up here at this spot at five-thirty.” He raised his finger in a gesture that was becoming familiar. “I suggest you look around and familiarize yourself with the area so there will be no confusion when it’s time to leave.” He waited a moment as they all gazed around, then led them on to the Royal Pavilion.

  “We’re not in Tinker’s Cove anymore,” observed Sue as they followed along with the rest of the group, and Lucy knew exactly what she meant. Brighton and Tinker’s Cove were both resort towns, perched on the shore, but they had little in common. Tinker’s Cove was at heart a country town, with one traffic light. Only a few streets even had sidewalks, which tended to be winding, ramshackle affairs made of various materials—asphalt here, concrete there, and, now and then, a slab of granite. The shops and houses were built of wood with clapboard or cedar shingles for siding. They tended to be one or two stories tall, with peaked roofs. Some dated from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, while others were more recent, generally ranches and a few McMansions.

  Brighton, on the other hand, was a busy city, and they were walking on a smooth concrete sidewalk past bus stops and traffic lights. There was a constant hum of traffic rounding the rotary in front of the pier and lots of motorcycles. The buildings, uniformly tall and square, were made of white stone. If it weren’t for the brightness and the tangy seaside air, Lucy would have thought she was back in London.

  Rounding a corner, they got their first view of the Royal Pavilion, also built of white stone but certainly not foursquare like the other
s: This fantasy had sprung tall turrets and bulging domes that gave it a fairy-tale atmosphere. Unlike the Tower, there were no walls enclosing this royal domicile, only an iron fence that gave passersby a clear view of the garden. It was sizable, but not enormous, and neither was the Royal Pavilion itself. Lucy thought it had a suburban air to it, as opposed to the heavily fortified Tower of London and the expansive complex at Hampton Court.

  Quentin was eager to explain the building’s significance, gathering them all in the front entrance. “This was a party house built by the prince regent, a place where he could gather with his friends without the formality of the royal court. He considered himself a bit of a connoisseur of the arts and chose the very new and exciting style that was taking nineteenth-century England by storm: Orientalism. But remember, this is an English adaptation of Oriental style, taken from drawings and written descriptions since few architects and artists had actually been to China or Japan.”

  Once inside, they were given audioguides that led them along a prescribed circuit. In the enormous dining room, they all stared in awe at the massive table, set for thirty people, and the amazing chandelier. “I really must remodel,” quipped Sue, gazing at the glittering fantasia that combined English crystal with Asian dragons.

  The group drifted apart as members followed the audioguides at their own pace, stopping to linger as various items caught their interest. Lucy noticed that Autumn’s major interest seemed to be sticking as close as possible to Will and wondered if she were making a play for him or perhaps trying to make Quentin jealous. Jennifer tagged along with them but was obviously the odd one out.

  “It was okay,” said Pam when they emerged into the gift shop, “but it seems like it would take a lot of dusting.”

  “Like you dust!” scoffed Sue.

  Rachel jumped to her defense. “I’ve seen Pam dust. Once when I stopped by at her house, she answered the door holding a feather duster.”

  “Ah.” Lucy knew that appearances could be deceiving. “You saw her with a duster, but did you actually see her use it?”

  Pam quickly changed the subject. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready for some fish and chips. When we got off the bus, I saw a place advertising ‘world famous fish and chips.’ ”

  Harry Ramsden’s was located on a corner opposite the Brighton Pier and was clean and spacious inside. Lucy was a bit disappointed when she was presented with a laminated menu instead of a chalkboard, and the fish and chips were served on a plate instead of wrapped in a sheet of newspaper, but there were consolations.

  “They serve wine!” exclaimed Sue, ordering a dry white.

  Pam was excited about something else. “And the fish comes with mushy peas! I’ve always wanted to try them.”

  When their meals were served, they discovered that she was right. Each portion of battered fried fish and French fries was accompanied by a little round bowl full of astonishingly bright green mush.

  Lucy poked her peas suspiciously with her fork. “I never saw peas this color. They look radioactive.”

  “They’re almost glowing,” agreed Rachel.

  Pam was not to be deterred. She dug in eagerly and lifted a big forkful to her mouth, but her expression of delighted anticipation soon turned to disappointment. “They taste like baby food.”

  Lucy wasn’t tempted by the peas but found the fish delicious.

  Sue sprinkled her fries liberally with malt vinegar and nibbled on one, sipping her wine. “So much better than fries with ketchup—and fewer calories.”

  “Chips,” corrected Lucy, remembering those mysteries she loved so much. “They call them chips here. And potato chips are crisps.”

  “Whatever.” Sue waved a graceful hand and ordered another glass of wine.

  When they left the restaurant, they discovered the sun had gone and clouds had moved in. The air was cold and heavy with moisture that clung to their faces, chilling them.

  “Just like home,” said Lucy, shrugging into her jacket.

  “It’s good for the complexion.” Sue studied her map, then pointed a finger. “The Lanes are thataway.”

  Retracing their steps toward the Royal Pavilion, they entered a narrow alley between two substantial white stone buildings and found themselves in a maze of tiny streets that twisted this way and that. It was like stumbling into a medieval village; the narrow streets were filled with groups of chattering shoppers wandering from store to store.

  “What if there was a fire!” Rachel seemed to be sniffing for smoke. “A fire truck could never get in here!”

  “They must have special apparatuses,” declared Sue. “Look! Cath Kidston!”

  “What is Cath Kidston?” asked Pam.

  “You will love it.” Sue grabbed Pam’s hand and pulled her toward the store.

  They all loved Cath Kidston, which offered household linens printed with colorful vintage designs. There were items for children—bibs and bedding and clothing, covered with bunnies and kittens for girls and fifties-style cowboys for boys. Kitchenware was abloom with flowers of all sorts, but most especially roses, in gorgeous pastel colors.

  Lucy could have bought out the shop but contented herself with a cowboy bib for Patrick, and Rachel limited herself to a packet of printed tissues. Pam, on the other hand, emerged with an enormous shopping bag bulging with tablecloths and napkins and dish towels and a seriously depleted wallet.

  Only Sue had resisted. “Not my style. Too flowery.” Noticing Pam’s disappointment, she quickly added, “But I understand the appeal. Very cute.”

  Continuing on, they found a jewelry store that was having a closeout sale, offering everything at 90 percent off. They quickly joined the eager throng pawing through the bins and boxes. After a few minutes, Lucy concluded the stuff wasn’t to her liking, and she was uncomfortable in such tight quarters. She went back outside to get a bit of air and noticed an antique shop across the way.

  Unable to resist, she opened the door, setting a little bell to jangling. It reminded her of a similar bell on the door at the Pennysaver office, and she felt immediately at home. The storekeeper was sitting at a desk off to one side and looked up from the newspaper she was reading, giving her a welcoming nod. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Just browsing.”

  Much to her surprise, the little shop seemed to go on and on. She wandered through room after room, past shelves of china and old toys, tarnished silver tea sets, battered and rusty tins that once contained Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Horlicks powder. She paused to flip through a box of old prints and gazed longingly at an antique “Souvenir of Brighton” plate priced at thirty-five pounds. That was something like fifty dollars. Could she bargain for a better price? She was just reaching for the plate to examine it more closely when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Lucy!”

  She turned her head and saw Quentin, a book open in his hand, standing in front of a shelf packed with more old books in faded covers.

  “Anything interesting?” she asked.

  “Nothing as interesting as you,” he said, making eye contact. “How did you manage to get away from the Three Musketeers?”

  She laughed. “They’re looking at jewelry. There’s a big sale across the way.”

  He replaced the book. “And you don’t like jewelry?”

  “I like antiques more.” Lucy picked up the plate. “And it was awfully crowded in there.”

  He lifted his head in surprise. “You suffer from claustrophobia?”

  Lucy studied the plate. Search as she might, she couldn’t find any cracks. “A little bit.”

  “Why don’t we head for the Pier, then, and get some fresh air?”

  Lucy was wondering if the plate was perhaps a bit too perfect. Could it be a fake? “Sounds good,” she said, replacing the plate.

  Quentin took her elbow. “Do you need to check with your friends?”

  Lucy shook her head. “They know I can take care of myself.”

  The
clouds thinned when they left the store and began weaving their way through the crowded lanes, and for a moment or two there was enough sunshine to create shadows. Lucy could see her silhouette and Quentin’s, stretching before them on the wide sidewalk as they walked along the busy main road to the pier. From this angle, it seemed a flimsy structure, perched on stilts and extending some distance into the blue-gray water.

  “It doesn’t look very safe.” Looking along the shore, Lucy could see the remains of an earlier pier that had collapsed, leaving ragged and dangerous-looking beams poking out of the gray waves.

  Quentin slipped his arm around Lucy’s waist. “The British are very safety conscious. Mind the gap and all that. I’m sure it’s inspected regularly.”

  They passed under the metal archway welcoming them to the pier and walked along the boardwalk, passing shacks that sold food and candy. Lucy wasn’t interested in them; she wanted to walk along the white-painted railing and take in the view. They paused for a moment, a chilly breeze ruffling their hair, looking along the beach where families were gathered in little clusters along the water. A busy road ran behind the beach, lined with substantial white hotels.

  “It’s a whole different attitude,” said Lucy, thinking of the shingle-style Queen Victoria Inn in Tinker’s Cove where guests lingered in rocking chairs to enjoy the view. “They don’t have porches.”

  “No wonder,” said Quentin, drawing her closer as the sun again disappeared and a light drizzle began to fall. “It’s freezing here.”

  Lucy pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. Her interest was caught by a pair of elderly women, dressed as if for church in suits and heels, walking arm in arm along the pier. “Look at them, they’re wearing their best bib and tucker.”