English Tea Murder (6 page)

“No, we met at group,” said Jennifer.

Lucy was puzzled. “What sort of group?”

Autumn leaned forward, speaking across Jennifer. “Not what you think. It’s no big deal, just something they have for freshmen. We get together once a week and talk about how we’re adjusting to school, time management, study skills, stuff like that.”

“Sounds good,” said Lucy, rising as the train pulled into Tottenham Court Road station, where they would change to the Northern Line. “I wish my daughter’s school had something like that.”

When they emerged at Goodge Street, Lucy noticed that Jennifer and Autumn were once again best of friends. They were walking with their heads together, and Autumn had her arm around Jennifer’s waist.

“What’s with those two?” asked Sue, falling into step beside Lucy. “One minute they’re fighting and the next they’re best friends.”

“I noticed that, too,” said Lucy, pausing to peek through a gate to admire the fenced gardens running behind the row houses. “Very weird.”

“What’s weird?” asked Rachel, joining them. “Hyacinths in March?”

“No, we were talking about the relationship between Jennifer and Autumn.” The girls were well out of earshot, far ahead of them on the sidewalk and turning the corner onto Gower Street.

“It’s almost a dominant-submissive sort of thing,” said Sue.

“I don’t think it’s so odd,” said Rachel, who was a psych major in college and never got over it. “College is a time for experimentation, discovering your real identity, and that includes your sexual identity.”

“Do you think they’re gay?” asked Pam, joining the group.

“Could be,” said Rachel. “It wouldn’t be the first time two women fell in love.” She pointed to a hyacinth that had escaped the neat border and sprouted in the middle of a lawn. “Or maybe they’re two outsiders who’ve found each other.”

Chapter Six

T
here were no beans for breakfast on Monday; the menu was egg, bacon, and grilled tomato. Lucy discovered she loved grilled tomatoes, but Pam and Rachel were less enthusiastic. Sue stuck with black coffee and a triangle of toast.

After breakfast, the group lingered in the lounge, waiting for Quentin Rea, who was due to arrive at any moment. Lucy checked his flight on the computer the hotel provided for guests’ use in the lounge and learned he had landed at Heathrow over two hours ago.

She also checked her e-mail, replying to Bill’s update that all was well at home but everyone missed her with a chatty summary of her visit to the Tower and St. Paul’s. When she sent it off, she noticed a new e-mail in her folder from Elizabeth.

News from Elizabeth was rarely good. Like most college students, she only bothered to contact her parents when she was in trouble or needed money. Lucy opened the message only to learn with dismay that the new dean at Chamberlain College was, in Elizabeth’s words, “a stupid Fascist” who was threatening to remove Elizabeth from her post as a resident advisor. While Elizabeth was outraged at what she believed was the dean’s unfairness, Lucy had a different reaction. She was concerned about her bank balance, because the position provided free room and board, which amounted to several thousand dollars. If Elizabeth lost her job, they would have to come up with the money. Just the thought of such a large, unexpected expense was enough to put a damper on her vacation.

Hearing voices in the hallway, Lucy wrote a quick reply asking for more information, then glanced up as Quentin Rea entered the lounge accompanied by a tall young woman. She had the sort of looks that turned heads, not so much because her features were outstanding—her nose was a bit too big, her lips thin—but because she knew how to present herself. Her black tailored pantsuit not only fit her slender figure to perfection but it also set off her buttery, shoulder-length blond hair. If she was wearing makeup, it was so expertly applied that you couldn’t tell, apart from a dab of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara on her wide-set brown eyes. Remembering how tired she’d felt when she finally arrived at the hotel, Lucy wondered how this woman could look so remarkably fresh after spending the night on the red-eye from Boston.

Turning her attention to the professor, Lucy decided he hadn’t aged well. He’d put on some weight in the years since she’d taken that course in Victorian literature, and his rumpled khaki pants and Harris Tweed jacket couldn’t stretch to cover the round belly that stuck out like a baby bump. The longish, streaked hair that Lucy had found so attractive all those years ago had darkened into a slatey gray and had thinned as well, leaving a circular, pink bald patch at his crown. Of course, everybody got older, everyone aged, thought Lucy. The unfortunate thing in Quentin’s case was that he hadn’t accepted the fact and was still sporting the same look he’d adopted straight out of grad school as a young assistant professor. It had been devastatingly effective back then, but it didn’t work now. He needed to buy pants with a larger waist; he needed a good haircut and a new pair of shoes. Long, bushy sideburns and loafers held together with duct tape looked ridiculous on a man approaching his fifties.

“There’s nothing worse than preppy gone to seed,” said Sue, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

Lucy laughed, closing out her e-mail account and pushing back her chair. Standing up, she caught Quentin’s eye.

“Lucy Stone!”

Lucy was chagrined to feel her cheeks warming. All that had been long ago and had mostly been in her imagination. “Meet my friends,” she said, quickly introducing Pam, Rachel, and Sue.

“Terrific, terrific,” he murmured, glancing around the crowded lounge. “Is everyone here?”

Lucy did a quick head count. The Smith family were seated together on a big sofa; Caroline, ever the well-behaved daughter, was in the middle between her watchful parents. Dr. Cope and Laura Barfield were standing by the window, and Laura’s son Will had taken Lucy’s seat at the computer. Autumn and Jennifer had squeezed together into an armchair where they were giggling and looking through some of the tourist brochures provided by the hotel.

“We’re all here,” said Pam. “And we’re very glad you could come and take over for George.”

“Not at all,” said Quentin. “I’m very happy to be here with you all, though of course I regret the circumstances that brought me here. This is Emma Temple,” he said, indicating his companion. “She has come to make arrangements to return her father’s body to the States.”

If he’d announced he’d brought along an auditor from the Internal Revenue Service to inquire into their tax returns, he couldn’t have gotten a more awkward reaction. The room fell silent and eyes were averted until Pam stepped forward and grabbed Emma’s hand. “I think I speak for everyone when I say how very sorry we all are for your loss. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“You’re very kind,” said Emma, her glance passing to each of them, as a lawyer might assess a jury. “I don’t anticipate any problems. I’m an attorney, so I’m familiar with situations like this. I expect to wrap things up fairly quickly.”

“Dealing with the death of a parent is always difficult . . .” began Rachel.

Emma cleared her throat, eager to set the record straight. “My parents were divorced and I hadn’t seen my father for many years. I can’t pretend to be grief-stricken, but I do appreciate your concern.” She turned to Quentin. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get settled in my room and leave you all to your tour. I have some phone calls to make.”

As Emma left the room, there seemed to be a general relaxation of tension. People were uncomfortable with death, Lucy reasoned, and it was awkward to confront grieving family members. Even worse, perhaps, when the family member wasn’t grieving.

“Well, then. Onward and upward as my dear mother likes to say.” Quentin was ready to take charge. “I believe George made arrangements for an excursion to Hampton Court today. In fact, I noticed a minibus parked outside, and I spoke to the driver, who is waiting for us. So if you all want to get your things for the day, we can get this show on the road.”

As always in London, the road was crowded and the minibus crawled through town. Lucy didn’t mind the slow pace, because it gave her an opportunity to get the lay of the land. Passing through busy Leicester Square, she spotted the TKTS booth where theater tickets were sold for half price, and passing Green Park, she noticed a sign pointing the way to Buckingham Palace. This was all useful information that she filed away for future reference.

Sue was also taking notes. “That’s the Wolseley,” she said, pointing out a restaurant on Piccadilly. “Very fashionable.”

“Looks expensive,” said Lucy, noticing the Ritz Hotel on the next corner and the well-dressed men in bespoke suits with slim briefcases striding along purposefully on the sidewalk.

Sue had also noticed them. “Don’t you wish people in America dressed better? All anybody seems to wear anymore is jeans.”

“Jeans are just fine with me,” said Lucy, looking down at her denim-clad legs, “and I’ve noticed plenty of people wearing them here in London, too.”

“Only tourists,” sniffed Sue.

Lucy laughed. “We’re tourists. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Even Jane Austen was a tourist,” said Quentin, joining the conversation. “It was quite the fashion in nineteenth-century England to tour the countryside and visit the stately houses. Elizabeth Bennett goes sightseeing in
Pride and Prejudice
. In fact, it’s the sight of Mr. Darcy’s impressive estate that prompts her to revise her previously unfavorable opinion of him and decide he’s marriage material.” He paused. “I think you will discover that Hampton Court is well worth a visit. It was built by Cardinal Wolsey and was the finest palace in England, a fact that didn’t sit well with Henry the Eighth. He complained that the cardinal’s home was far nicer than anything he had, compelling the cardinal to offer it to him. Henry didn’t hesitate to seize it. He wanted something that would impress his new lover, Anne Boleyn.” Quentin paused. “I guess we all know how that turned out.”

“She was beheaded, wasn’t she?” said Autumn. “We saw the monument at the Tower of London.”

Quentin nodded. “Henry soured on the relationship when she failed to produce a male heir.”

“Typical!” snorted Autumn. “Like that was her fault.”

“Nowadays we know it’s the father’s sperm that determines the sex of the child,” observed Dr. Cope. “They didn’t know that in the sixteenth century.”

“Was that why she died?” Jennifer’s voice was low and her face pale. “Just because she didn’t have any sons?”

“It was a bit more complicated than that. She was accused of treason and fornicating with her brother and just about anything her enemies could think of. But Henry had it done in true royal style.” Quentin spoke with relish, enjoying showing off his knowledge. “Instead of letting the usual executioner go at her with an ax, which sometimes took more than a few whacks, he hired the famous swordsman of Calais to do the deed in the French manner. One quick swing of the sword and the problem was solved.”

“I hated the Tower,” whispered Jennifer. “It’s a horrible place. You can almost hear those poor souls screaming.”

“I imagine more than a few got exactly what they deserved,” said Tom Smith.

“And others were sacrificed to royal whims,” said Quentin. “At Hampton Court, they say, visitors sometimes encounter the ghost of Katherine Howard, still protesting her innocence.”

“What happened to her?” asked Caroline, rousing from her usual lethargy and taking an interest.

“She was Henry the Eighth’s fifth wife.” Quentin ticked them off on his fingers. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced,
beheaded . .
.”

“Oh, no, not another,” moaned Jennifer.

“Afraid so. She not only failed to produce an heir but she was also judged unfaithful to the king.”

Sue raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Seems a risky sort of thing to do with a husband like Henry.”

“Who knows?” Quentin shrugged. “The court was full of rumors. It may not have been true. Unfortunately, Henry believed it, so it was ‘Off with her head!’ and this time there was no fancy French swordsman.”

Jennifer was so pale Lucy was afraid she might pass out. “Tell us about the sixth wife,” she suggested. “She outlived Henry, didn’t she?”

Quentin smiled. “Catherine Parr. She did indeed. As the rhyme goes, she survived. She married again after Henry’s death but unfortunately died of puerperal fever.”

“A common occurrence in those days,” said Dr. Cope.

“But don’t think Hampton Court is anything like the Tower—it’s a beautiful Tudor country estate that’s been enlarged by subsequent kings and queens. It’s situated on the Thames and has beautiful gardens, which I encourage you to explore. Because, it seems, we’ve arrived.”

The driver swung the minibus into a drop-off area, and they disembarked, gathering in a small knot on the gravel pathway to wait while Quentin bought the tickets. Lucy found herself enjoying the fresh air and sunshine as she took in the splendid view. The gravel drive, which bisected a bright green lawn edged on one side by the meandering river, led to the quaintly towered and turreted structure of age-darkened red brick. It didn’t seem very large or impressive from this angle, but rather like a castle you might see pictured in an illustrated book of fairy tales. Rapunzel would not have looked out of place letting her hair down from one of the twin towers that flanked the central gate.

When Quentin returned and distributed plans of the palace, she discovered it was a vast complex of buildings extending far beyond the Tudor façade and included a chapel, numerous enclosed courts, a Tudor kitchen, picture galleries, an orangery, halls for receiving state visitors, and once-private royal apartments.

“I’m afraid we got off to a rather late start this morning, so we don’t have as much time as I’d like,” said Quentin after checking his watch. “I suggest we stick together for a quick tour of the interior and then go our separate ways to the garden, lunch, the maze, whatever you like. We must all meet back here at exactly this spot at three o’clock. And I mean three o’clock and not a minute later because our driver has warned us that traffic will most likely be heavy and we must get back to London before our minibus turns into a pumpkin on the stroke of five.”

This was met with nods and bemused smiles as they began making their way to the entrance with Quentin leading the way. Once inside, he led them upstairs and down through vast halls with elaborately plastered ceilings and along dark and chilly bricked corridors to the vast, smoky kitchens where two meals a day for hundreds of members of the royal household had been cooked every day on open fires. Lucy found it all fascinating and hung on to every word, but after they’d viewed the Chapel Royal and entered the Georgian area of the palace, she began to lose interest. All those Williams and Georges confused her, and she found herself longing to get outside to explore the garden and find the Great Vine. She’d recently read about it in a gardening magazine and was eager to see the famous old survivor for herself.

“These rooms were originally intended for Queen Mary the Second. She was coruler with her husband, William the Third, but they are better known to us as William and Mary, who the college is named after but were later used by Queen Caroline, George the Second’s wife . . .” Quentin was rambling on, absorbed by a subject that he alone found fascinating. Without the titillation of sexual misalliances and royal beheadings, the group was becoming restless, and when Lucy saw Autumn and Jennifer slip away, she tapped Sue on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “I want to see the Great Vine.”

When the group turned a corner into a little room with original linenfold paneling, Lucy and Sue headed in the opposite direction. By following a few signs, they soon found themselves outside, standing in front of a classically proportioned Georgian façade that bore no resemblance at all to the Tudor side of the building. This part of the redbrick palace had white trim and even rows of large windows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a New England college campus. It could even be a high school or a town hall.