Read Tea with Milk and Murder (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 2) for Free Online Page B

was standing at the top of our own front steps.
    “What’s going on, Mother?” I asked as I joined her.
    “I hardly know, darling. I just saw the police arrive…”
    As we watched, the front door of the next house opened and a dumpy-looking, middle-aged woman came out. The constable took off his hat and said something to her. I couldn’t hear what he said but the woman’s eyes widened in horror and she raised her hands to her face. She seemed unable to speak and the constable looked around helplessly. He spied my mother and motioned for her to join him. I found myself following without realising it. We let ourselves into the adjoining garden and the constable came over gratefully to meet us.
    “I’m afraid I’ve had to break some bad news,” said the constable in a low voice. “Her daughter was involved in an incident tonight and is dead. Would it be possible for you to stay with her, ma’am? We would normally have a WPC, but we’re a bit short-staffed this evening—”
    My mother gasped. “Oh, my goodness, how dreadful! Of course I’ll stay with her.” She went quickly forwards and put a gentle hand under the other woman’s elbow
    “The CID detectives will be coming to speak to her shortly. The inspector’s just tied up in the city at the moment.”
    I turned to stare at him. Could it be…? Surely it was too much of a coincidence for Oxfordshire CID to be involved in the death of two young women on the same night? This must be Sarah’s mother, I realised—and I also realised suddenly why Sarah had seemed vaguely familiar. I must have seen her once or twice leaving the neighbours’ place when I happened to be coming back myself. She had never been friendly enough to make eye contact or attempt small talk and I had never paid her much attention.
    “I’ll take her back to our house,” my mother said. “She can stay there until the Detective-Inspector comes.”
    The constable nodded, pleased. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am.”
    “Come, my dear,” my mother said to Mrs Waltham. “A cup of tea is what you need…”
    Of course, a cup of tea. Like a typical Englishman—or woman, in her case—a cup of tea was my mother’s solution to everything, from a broken heart to global warming. Mrs Waltham nodded numbly and let my mother lead her back to our house.
    I followed in silence, trying to recall what my mother had told me about our neighbours. They had only moved next door recently—about six months ago, I recalled her saying. Mr Waltham was in his sixties—he must have had Sarah much later in life, which probably explained why she had been so spoilt—and his wife was a lot younger. In fact, I remembered my mother commenting about the age difference in scandalous tones.
    They had one daughter and also a “housekeeper”, a daily help who had apparently been with the family for years—a capable, middle-aged woman with a kindly face and a no-nonsense attitude—though in the past few days, I had noticed a younger woman sweeping the garden and taking out the rubbish. I couldn’t remember my mother saying much else about them, other than praising Mrs Waltham’s beautiful roses.
    Now I showed Mrs Waltham into the living room, whilst my mother went to prepare the tea. I was a bit unsure what to say to the grieving woman—what could I say to someone who had just lost their daughter? I glanced at her surreptitiously, noting with surprise that she did seem young. No more than her early forties. She must have had Sarah at a very young age. And her daughter certainly hadn’t gained her chic style from her mother. Unlike the glamorous creature who had come to the gallery, Mrs Waltham was plain and frumpy. Oh, she was dressed in expensive enough clothes: her shoes looked Italian and hand-made, and I was sure that I had seen the dress she was wearing in the designer racks at the local department store, whilst her hair had obviously been expertly tinted and cut at a top salon. But somehow, the