Death By Darjeeling

“Good night,” called Theodosia.

“What was that all about?” asked Haley as she shuffled past shouldering a huge tray.

“Fans of Earl Grey.”

“That guy’s got some PR agent, doesn’t he?” she joked.

“Say, thanks for enlisting Bethany,” said Theodosia. “I sure hope we didn’t ruin her plans for tonight.”

“Are you serious?” said Haley. “The poor girl was sitting home alone with her nose stuck in Gombrich’s Story of Art. Not that there’s anything wrong with curling up with an art history book, but between you and me, this was a great excuse to get her out and talking to real people. Believe me, this is the best thing for her.”

From her post at the far end of the garden, Bethany glanced toward Theodosia and Haley and saw by the looks on their faces that they were talking about her. She gave a thin smile, knowing they had her best interests at heart, feeling thankful she had friends who cared so much.

With her elegant oval face, pale complexion, long dark hair, and intense brown eyes, Bethany was a true beauty. But her body language mirrored the sadness she carried inside. Where most young women her age moved with effortless grace, Bethany was sedate, contained. Where amusement and joy should have lit her face, there was melancholy.

Picking up a serving tray, Bethany walked to the nearest empty table. She cleared it, taking great pains with the bone china cups and saucers, then moved solemnly to the next table. Centerpiece candles that had glowed so brightly an hour earlier were beginning to sputter. The Lamplighter Tour visitors were taking final sips, slowly meandering back inside the house, saying their good-byes. The evening was drawing to a close.

Bethany glanced across the patio to where Theodosia and Haley had been standing just a few minutes earlier. Now they were nowhere to be seen. They must have ducked inside the butler’s pantry to start their cleanup, she thought to herself.

Bethany crisscrossed the brick patio, picking up a cup here, a plate there. When she finally broke from her task and looked around, there were only two tables where people remained seated.

Correction, make that one, she told herself as the foursome sitting at the table nearest the central fountain stood up and began to amble off slowly, chatting, admiring the dark foliage, pointing up at overhanging Spanish moss.

Bethany glanced toward the far corner of the patio. Against the large, dense hedge that formed one border of the garden and ran around the perimeter of the property, she could just barely make out the figure of a man sitting quietly alone.

Bethany tucked the serving tray against one hip and started toward him, intent on asking if she could refill his teacup or perhaps clear his table.

But as she approached, goose bumps rose on her arms, and a shiver ran down her spine. The night had turned suddenly chill. A stiff breeze tumbled dry leaves underfoot, whipsawed a final brave stand of camellias, and sent petals fluttering. The candle on the table nearest her was instantly snuffed, and the candle sitting on the man’s table began to sputter wildly.

Bethany was within four feet of the man when a warning bell sounded in her head. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her! But as she squinted into the darkness, the erratic candlelight hissed and flared, illuminating the man’s face.

The calm of the courtyard was shattered by Bethany’s shrill scream. The silver tray crashed to the bricks. Teacups broke into shards, and a half-filled pot of tea exploded on impact.

Theodosia heard Bethany’s cry from inside the butler’s panty. She slammed open the door and rushed outside and through the tangle of empty tables. “Bethany!” she called, urgency in her voice, worry swelling in her breast.

Anguish written across her face, all Bethany could do was back away from the table and point to the man sitting there alone.

Heels clicking like rapid fire, Theodosia approached. She saw immediately that the man slumped in his chair, his chin heavy on his chest. One hand dangled at his knees, and the other rested on the table, still clutching a teacup. As Theodosia quickly took in this strange scene, her fleeting impression was that the tiny teacup decorated in swirling gold vines seemed dwarfed by the man’s enormous hand.

“Theodosia, what are you . . .” From across the way, Samantha’s voice rose sharply, then died.

Another strangled cry tore from Bethany’s mouth. She pointed toward Samantha, who had crumpled in a dead faint.

Haley and Drayton had followed close on Theodosia’s heels. But now they quickly bent over Samantha and ministered to her.

Theodosia’s brain shifted into overdrive. “Haley, call nine-one-one. Bethany, stop crying.”

“She’s all right, just fainted,” called Drayton as he gently lifted Samantha to a sitting position.

“Bethany, get a glass of water for Samantha,” Theodosia directed. “Do it now. And please try to stop crying.”

Theodosia turned her attention back to the man’s motionless body. Gently, she laid her index and forefinger against the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a pulse. No breath signs, either.

Theodosia inhaled sharply. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

During her college days, one of Theodosia’s more unorthodox professors, Professor Hammish Poore, had taken his entire biology class on a field trip to the Charleston County Morgue. There they’d witnessed two autopsies first-hand. Although it had been more than a few years since that grisly experience, Theodosia was still reasonably familiar with the body’s sad signs that indicated life had ceased.

This poor man could have had a sudden heart attack, she reasoned. Or experienced an explosive brain embolism. Death from asphyxiation was a possibility as well. But if something had obstructed his airway, someone would have heard him choking.

Wouldn’t they?

Theodosia was aware of hushed murmurs of concern in the background, of Drayton shaking his head slowly, speaking in solemn tones about Hughes Barron.

This was Hughes Barron?

Theodosia fixed her attention on the hand holding the teacup. In the flickering spasms of the candle she could see the man’s fingernails had begun to turn blue, causing her to wonder: What was in that cup besides tea?

Chapter 3

The magic of the night was suddenly shattered by the harsh strobe of red and blue lights. Three police cruisers roared down the street and braked to a screeching halt. Front tires bounced roughly up over curbs, sending a gaggle of curious onlookers scattering. The whoop-whoop of a rapidly approaching ambulance shrilled.

Klang und licht, thought Theodosia. Sound and light. So much excitement, so much kinetic energy being exerted. But as she stood under the oak tree in the dark garden, surveying the slumped body of Hughes Barron, she knew no amount of hurry or flurry on the part of police or paramedics would make a whit of difference. Hughes Barron was beyond help. He was in the Lord’s hands now.

But, of course, they all came blustering into the courtyard anyway: four police officers from the precinct headquarters on Broad Street, all with polished boots and buttons; a team of EMTs dispatched from Charleston Memorial Hospital, who jounced their clattering metal gurney across the brick patio; and six firemen, and who seemed to have shown up just to feed off the excitement.

The two EMTs immediately checked Hughes Barron’s pulse and respiration and hung an oxygen mask on him. One knelt down and put a stethoscope to Barron’s chest. When he ascertained that the man no longer had a heartbeat, activity seemed to escalate.

Two officers immediately cornered Drayton, Haley, Bethany, and Samantha for interviews and statements. Another team of officers began the business of stringing yellow police tape throughout the garden.