Death by Darjeeling Read online

  Bethany gazed anxiously toward Theodosia, a look that said she hoped she hadn’t overstepped her bounds.

  “Excellent,” replied Theodosia with a reassuring smile for Bethany that conveyed Thank you, well done.

  “I have to be honest,” said Tanner Joseph with a lop-sided grin. “My tea drinking has been limited to English breakfast teas and flavored ice teas that come in bottles. But all of this is fascinating. I had no idea so many varieties of tea even existed. Or that water temperature or steeping time was critical. Plus, my taste buds have just been awakened and treated to this rather amazing Japanese green tea. Gyokuro, isn’t that what you called it, Bethany?”

  Tanner Joseph smiled down at Bethany, and something seemed to pass between them.

  Interesting, mused Theodosia as she caught the exchange. I would have guessed Haley would be the one attracted to this likable young man. Up until this moment, Bethany hadn’t displayed a whit of interest in meeting anyone new.

  “I’m delighted we had a hand in helping nurture yet another tea aficionado, Mr. Joseph,” Theodosia laughed as she sat down at the table and helped herself to a cup of the flavorful green tea as well.

  “Call me Tanner, please.” He sat back down in his chair, picked up his cup of tea, and took a sip.

  “Okay then, Tanner,” said Theodosia. “You’ve seen our shop, enjoyed a cup of tea. By chance, has Bethany mentioned our holiday blends?”

  Tanner Joseph held up an oversized artist’s sketch pad. One page was covered with notes and thumbnail drawings.

  “We’ve already been through it,” he said. “She told me all about Drayton’s different blends, the names you came up with, even your ideas on design. See . . .” He laughed. “I’m pumped. I’ve already noodled a few sketches.”

  “You work pretty fast,” said Theodosia. This was a surprise.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Tanner Joseph with great enthusiasm. “You have no idea what a fun project this is versus the tedium of waging constant war against environmental robbers and plunderers.”

  Theodosia sat with Bethany and Tanner Joseph for ten more minutes, expressing her thoughts on the holiday blends and what she called the “look and feel” of the label design. Tanner Joseph, in turn, shared his few quick sketches with her, and Theodosia saw that he’d grasped the concept immediately.

  They went over timing and budget for a few minutes more, then Theodosia and Bethany walked Tanner Joseph to the door and bade him good-bye.

  “I had no idea you knew so much about the holiday blends,” said Theodosia as Bethany closed and locked the double doors. She was pleased but a little taken aback, wondering how Bethany had gleaned so much information.

  “Drayton told me all about the holiday blends this morning while we were putting together boxes of tea samplers. He really loves to share his knowledge of tea.”

  “To anyone who will listen,” Theodosia agreed with a laugh. “But I daresay, he’s taken you under his wing.”

  “It’s such a rare talent to know which teas combine with different spices and fruits. And Drayton really seems to come up with some wonderful blends.”

  “Bethany,” said Theodosia, thoroughly pleased, “you’re an amazingly quick study.”

  Bethany blushed. “But tea is such a fun subject. And something Drayton is so obviously passionate about.”

  “It’s been his life,” agreed Theodosia.

  “I didn’t mean that you’re not passionate,” blushed Bethany. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that I haven’t been around much lately,” finished Theodosia. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m passionate about a lot of subjects.”

  “Like finding out what killed Hughes Barron?” Bethany asked in a quiet voice.

  “Well . . . yes,” said Theodosia, a little surprised by the quick change of subject. “It is a rather compelling mystery.”

  “And you love mysteries,” said Bethany, her eyes twinkling. “I mean, getting involved in them.”

  “I guess I do,” said Theodosia. She was somewhat taken aback by Bethany’s insight. Although she loved nothing better than curling up in front of the fireplace with a good mystery, a P. D. James or a Mary Higgins Clark, she’d never consciously considered the fact that she was itching to get entangled in a real-life mystery. A murder mystery, no less.

  She sighed. Well, like it or not, she was hip deep in one now.

  CHAPTER 26

  GATEWAY WALK IS a hidden pathway that begins on Church Street, near Saint Philip’s graveyard, and meanders four blocks through quiet gardens. Visitors who venture in are led past the Gibbes Museum of Art, the Charleston Library Society, and various fountains and sculptures to Saint John’s Church on Archdale Street. The picturesque Gateway Walk, named for the wrought-iron Governor Aiken Gates along the way, enchants visitors with its plaque that reads:

  Through handwrought gates, alluring paths

  Lead on to pleasant places.

  Where ghosts of long forgotten things

  Have left elusive traces.

  Theodosia had always found the Gateway Walk a lovely, contemplative spot, conducive to deep thought and relaxation. But tonight, with darkness already fallen, she hurried along the brick path, pointedly ignoring the marble tablets and gravestones that loomed on either side of her.

  She had spent the entire morning and afternoon at the Indigo Tea Shop waiting tables, focusing on tea shop business, going over the Web site designs, trying to get back in touch. She knew she hadn’t really given careful attention to her business since the night of Hughes Barron’s murder; she knew her priorities were slightly out of whack. The Indigo Tea Shop was her bread and butter. Her life. And nosing about the County Morgue shouldn’t have taken precedence over her meeting with Tanner Joseph on label illustrations. That had been thoughtless.

  Of course, sleuthing was exciting, she told herself as she passed by a marble statue of a weeping angel, a silent, solitary inhabitant of the graveyard. And trying to solve a murder did set one’s blood to racing.

  Feeling her guilt slightly absolved, for the time being, Theodosia’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved quickly along the dark path as it wound behind the Charleston Library Society.

  She realized full well that she was headed for Timothy Neville’s home not just for an evening of music. Her ulterior motive was to spy.

  In a patch of crape myrtle there was a whir of cicadas, the rustle of some small, nocturnal creature, claiming the darkness as its domain.

  Six blocks had seemed too short to drive, so Theodosia had walked, taking this shortcut through the cemetery and various gardens. Now, ducking through a crumbling arch with trumpet vine twining at her feet, the Gateway Walk suddenly seemed too dark, too secret, too secluded.

  Stepping up her pace, she emerged two minutes later into soft, dreamy light cast by the old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps that lined Archdale Street.

  Drayton had said he’d meet her at eight o’clock, just outside the gates of Timothy Neville’s Georgian-style mansion. And from the looks of things, she had only moments to spare.

  Cars were parked bumper to bumper up and down Archdale, and lights blazed from every window of Timothy Neville’s enormous, sprawling home. As Theodosia hurried up the walk, she was suddenly reminded of the Avis Melbourne Home the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Its lamps had also been lit festively. Swarms of visitors had crowded the walks and piazzas.

  She fervently hoped that an evening at this grand home would yield far better consequences.

  “Right on time.” Drayton emerged from the shadows and offered her his arm. He was dressed in black tie and looked more at ease in formal attire than most mere mortals could ever hope for. When an invitation specified black tie, Drayton always complied with elegance and polish.

  Theodosia had worn a floor-length, pale blue sleeveless dress, shimmery as moonlight. As an afterthought, she’d tossed a silver gray pashmina shawl over her shoulders. With her hair long and flowing and a dab of mascara and lipstick to h
ighlight her expressive eyes and full lips, she looked like an elegant lady out for a night on the town.

  But I’m here to spy, Theodosia reminded herself as she and Drayton climbed the stone steps.

  They nodded to familiar faces standing in groups on the piazza, passed through elegant cathedral doors and were greeted inside by Henry, Timothy Neville’s butler.

  Henry was dressed in full liveried regalia, and rumor held that Henry had been employed by Timothy Neville for almost forty years. There weren’t many people Theodosia knew who had live-in help or had help that stayed with them for so long.

  “Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” Henry announced solemnly. He had the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle and the ramrod backbone of an English Beefeater. “Or feel free to join Mr. Neville’s other guests in the salon, where Mr. Calhoun is playing a piece from Scarlatti.” Henry gestured slowly toward a gilded archway through which harpsichord notes flowed freely.

  Theodosia noted that the venerable Henry seemed to move in slow motion. It was like watching a Japanese Noh drama.

  “Wine or song?” Drayton asked good-naturedly.

  “Let’s get a drink first,” suggested Theodosia. She knew if they repaired to the salon, courtesy required them to pay strict attention to the music, not exactly her motive for coming here tonight. But if they grabbed a cocktail first, they’d be free to move about the house and greet other guests.

  And get the lay of the land, Theodosia told herself. Try to get a better fix on the very strange Mr. Timothy Neville.

  Although she had passed Timothy Neville’s house many times on her walks with Earl Grey, Theodosia had never before been inside this enormous mansion. She was in awe as she gazed around. This was splendor unlike anything she’d seen before. A dramatic stairway dominated the foyer and rose three floors. Double parlors flanked the main hallway, and Theodosia saw that they contained Italian black marble fireplaces, Hepplewhite furnishings, and ornate chandeliers. Gleaming oil paintings and copperplate engravings hung on the walls.

  Built during the Civil War by an infamous blockade runner, this home was reputed to have sliding panels that led to secret passageways and hidden rooms. Some folks in the historic district even whispered that the house was haunted. The fact that Timothy Neville’s home had once served as residence for a former governor and was a private girl’s school for a short time, only added to the intrigue.

  “Theodosia!” The shrill voice of Samantha Rabathan rose above the undercurrent of conversational buzz as Theodosia and Drayton entered the solarium. Then Samantha, resplendent in fuschia silk, came determinedly toward them, like the prow of a ship cutting the waves.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” cooed Samantha as she adjusted the front of her dress to show off just the right amount of décolletage. “Drayton, too. Hello there, dear fellow.”

  Drayton inclined his head slightly and allowed Samantha to peck him on the cheek.

  “Our illustrious chairwoman from the Lamplighter Tour,” he said in greeting. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  Samantha held a finger to her matching fuschia-colored mouth. “I think it best we downplay the Lamplighter Tour.” She grasped each of them by an elbow and started to haul them toward the bar. “That is, until this nastiness blows over.” She smiled broadly, seemed to really notice Theodosia for the first time, and instantly shifted her look of amusement to one of concern. “How are you holding up, Theodosia? So many rumors flying, it’s hard to know what to believe. And how is that poor, dear child . . . What is her name again?”

  “Bethany,” replied Theodosia. Samantha was being incredibly overbearing tonight, and Theodosia was already searching for an excuse to escape her clutches.

  Just as a waiter offered flutes of champagne from a silver tray, the perfect excuse arrived in the form of Henry, announcing that the Balfour Quartet was about to begin their evening’s performance.

  “Got to run,” burbled Samantha. “I’m sitting with Cleo and Raymond Hovle. From Santa Barbara. You remember them, Theodosia. They also have a house on Seabrook Island.”

  Theodosia didn’t remember Cleo and Raymond at all, but she smiled hello out of politeness when Samantha pointedly nudged a small suntanned couple as she and Drayton entered the parlor for the concert.

  They found seats in the back row, not in cushioned splendor as did the guests at the front of the pack, but on somewhat uncomfortable folding chairs.

  Unaccustomed as she was to wearing three-inch high-heeled sandals, Theodosia surreptitiously slipped them off her feet and waited for the music to start.

  CHAPTER 27

  TIMOTHY NEVILLE TUCKED his violin under his chin and gave a nod to begin. He had done a brief introduction of the other three members of the Balfour Quartet. The two men, the one who’d played the harpsichord earlier and was now on the violin, and a red-faced man on the viola, were also members of the Charleston Symphony. The fourth member, a young woman who played the cello, was from Columbia, South Carolina’s capital, located just northwest of Charleston.

  As Timothy Neville played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Die Mittleren Streichquartette, he was surprised to note that the Browning woman was sitting in the back row. He gave a quick dip of his head to position himself for a slightly better view and saw immediately that she was sitting next to Drayton Conneley.

  Of course. Drayton worked at the woman’s little tea shop. It was logical that she might accompany him tonight. His command-performance concerts were legendary throughout the historic district, and it wasn’t unusual for his invited guests to bring along guests of their own.

  He frowned. The Browning woman was staring sharply at him as though she were waiting for something to happen. Silly girl. They had just begun the allegro, and there were a good fifty minutes to go. Still, she had been bold to come see him at the Heritage Society and plead the young intern’s case. Even though he may have been dismissive of Theodosia Browning, it didn’t mean he didn’t admire her spirit. Lots of complacency these days. Hard to find the plucky ones. All the same, he would keep a close watch on her. She had stuck her nose in matters that didn’t concern her, especially her inquiry about the Peregrine Building. That just wouldn’t do at all.

  The Balfour Quartet was very good, far better than Theodosia had expected they’d be, and she soon found herself lost in the musical depths of Beethoven’s Quartet no. 9.

  It was haunting and evocative, pulling her in and holding her complete attention until it came to a crashing conclusion.

  Theodosia, suddenly reminded of why she was there in the first place, applauded briefly, then dashed out the door ahead of the crowd. There would be a twenty-minute intermission, an opportunity for men to refill drinks and ladies to visit the powder room.

  Theodosia headed up that grand staircase, her toes sinking deep into plush white wool, and dashed down the long, arched hallway when she hit the second floor. Peeking into several bedrooms along the way, she found that all were elegantly furnished, and yet none showed signs of being occupied. Finally, at what would be the front of the house, she found the set of double doors that led to Timothy Neville’s private suite of rooms.

  As she pushed one of the massive doors slowly inward on its hinges, it emitted a protesting groan. Theodosia held her breath, looking back over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard or might even be watching her. No. Nothing. She swallowed hard, stepped inside Timothy Neville’s private office, and closed the door behind her.

  A single desk lamp, what looked like an original Tiffany dragonfly design, cast low light in the suite. Massive furnishings were dark, shadowy lumps. Flames danced in the ornate marble fireplace.

  Theodosia’s sandals whispered across the Aubusson carpet. Even in the dim light she could see portraits of Timothy Neville’s ancestors, various fiery Huguenots scowling down at her from their vantage point on the burgundy-colored walls.

  Then she was standing at Timothy Neville’s Louis XIV desk, her hand on
the brass knob, about to pull open the top drawer. She hesitated as a pang of guilt shot through her. This was snooping of the first magnitude, she told herself. Not terribly above board. Then she also remembered Timothy Neville’s incredible rage and Hughes Barron clutching his teacup.

  She slid the drawer open.

  Inside were pens, stamps, personalized stationery, eyeglasses, a sheaf of household papers, and Timothy Neville’s passport. Everything in an orderly arrangement, nothing of great interest.

  What were you expecting to find? she asked herself. A little blue glass bottle of arsenic? A crackling paper packet of strychnine?

  She padded back across the room to the door opposite the desk and sneaked it open. Timothy Neville’s rather splendid bedroom met her eyes. Four-poster bed draped in heavy wine- and rust-colored brocades. Small Chippendale tables flanking each side of the bed. An elegant linen press that looked as though it might have been created by the famous Charleston cabinetmaker, Robert Walker. Two armchairs in matching brocade sat next to the small fireplace. And, on the walls, more oil paintings. Not ancestral portraits but eighteenth-century portraits of women. Women in gardens, women with children, women staring out dreamily.

  The paintings hinted at a softer, more humane side of Timothy Neville than Theodosia wouldn’t have guessed.

  In the bathroom, next to a large walk-in closet, Theodosia hit the light switch. The bathroom was restful and elegant, replete with enormous claw-foot tub, dark green wallpaper, and brass wall sconces and towel racks. Without hesitation, Theodosia pulled open the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.

  It was as predictable as his desk drawer had been. Shaving cream, toothpaste, aspirin, a bottle of Kiehl’s After Shave Balm, a bottle of prescription medicine. Theodosia reached for the brown tinted bottle and scanned the label.

  Halcion. Five milligrams. Sleeping pills.

  She pondered this for a moment. Incriminating evidence? No, not really, she decided. Timothy Neville was an old man. Older people often had difficulty sleeping.