Tea with Jam & Dread

Book 6: Tea by the Sea Mysteries

by Vicki Delany

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Cape Cod tearoom owner Lily Roberts leaves New England for old England to attend a party for an aristocratic centenarian—but what goes on there is anything but noble . . .

Long ago, Lily’s grandmother Rose worked as a kitchen maid at Thornecroft Castle, and now Elizabeth, dowager countess of Frockmorton, is celebrating her one hundredth birthday. Rose still has fond feelings for her onetime employer, so a group trip to Yorkshire is planned. It’s also an opportunity for Lily to visit her boyfriend, who’s currently working in England—and to indulge in some British tea.

Much has changed, however, and the ancestral home is now a luxury hotel, which will be closed for a week to accommodate the big bash, much to the chagrin of Elizabeth’s grandson, Julien—leading Lily to overhear an argument among the younger generation about the fate of the family fortune. Little do they know that Elizabeth plans to sell the famous Frockmorton Sapphires out of the family for the first time in centuries . . .

The icing on the cake comes when the jewels suddenly vanish—and things really go nuts when a party guest dies from an allergic reaction to almonds that someone smuggled into Lily’s coronation chicken sandwiches. Now she’ll have to scour the property to find out who would commit murder in such a manor . . .

Release date: July 29, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

I never thought it would end like this.

“We’re going to die! We’re all going to die!” my best friend screamed, as she threw her hands up to cover her eyes.

“Do restrain yourself, Bernadette,” my grandmother said, from the back seat. “Lily is in perfect control.”

I was anything but in perfect control. In fact, I agreed with Bernie. The end was nigh. I clenched my teeth with as much force as I was clenching the steering wheel. I would have also liked to cover my eyes, but that would not have been a good idea. Instead, I focused and refocused as I tried to trace the fading lines on the road in front of me, but with the rain and my own nerves, that wasn’t easy.

Vehicles of all sizes zipped around me, throwing up spray. Rain pounded the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep up.

“I’ve missed the exit. Again. I need you to read those signs for me,” I said to Bernie.

“Rerouting,” said the cheerful voice of the car’s GPS.

“They go by so fast,” Bernie said.

“What lane do I need to be in?” I asked.

I was trapped in three lanes of fast-moving traffic. Round and round the roundabout we went. Vehicles came from all directions. The exit signs had so many names on them, by the time I read them, I was already driving past. The GPS wasn’t helping all that much. I was expecting it to give up and shut down at any moment.

“Okay.” Bernie took a deep breath. “I’m back. Momentary overreaction as my life flashed before my eyes. We can do this.”

“I would hope so,” my grandmother, Rose Campbell, said, “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in this car. Like a modern version of the Flying Dutchman, doomed to forever circle a roundabout on the outskirts of Leeds, never making landfall at the next service center. Speaking of which, don’t take too much longer to get us out of here, love, I need to use the loo.”

“You want the A58. That’s coming up,” Bernie said, alternately consulting the car’s installed GPS and her own phone. “Stay in this lane until you pass the next exit, and then move to the left. The exit we want is the one after the next one.”

I maneuvered the car into the turn. A white panel van leaned on its horn as it passed me on the right.

“Ignore him,” Bernie said. “You’re doing fine. Okay, now move to the left.”

“There’s a whole line of cars coming up on my left.”

“They’ll let you in,” Bernie said confidently, as she twisted in her seat to look behind us. “Okay, maybe not that guy.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I pulled left. Miraculously once “that guy” had passed, the other approaching vehicles did slow down, and I slipped into the lane. I remembered to breathe. It wouldn’t help anyone if I passed out.

The lane exited, and I was, at last, free of the latest of the cursed roundabouts. It, I feared, would not be the last.

I was now on a highway. A nice normal highway with wide straight lanes and vehicles politely staying in their own lanes—most of them, anyway. According to the GPS, I had several miles to calm down before I had to get off the highway and enter another tumble with a three-lane roundabout with seven exits, each of those exits having numerous directional signs. It did not help that I was driving on the “wrong” side of the road.

“ ‘Let’s rent a car,’ ” I mumbled, as I slowly forced my fingers off the steering wheel and gave them a good stretch in an attempt to return some life to each digit. “ ‘It’ll be so much cheaper than taking taxis, and we’ll be able to get around to see the sights easier.’ ”

“All still true,” Bernie said. “Once we’re in the countryside, the driving will be so much easier.” She seemed to have recovered from her earlier vision of impending death.

I had to admit, although only to myself, that much of this had been my idea. Rent a car. See the area. Enjoy the freedom a personal vehicle offers. What an optimist was I.

Not only had I never been to England before—and thus, never driven on the “wrong” side of the road or even seen a multilane roundabout—but I don’t drive all that much in America. I’m from Manhattan. I’ve never even owned a car. When I need to get around Cape Cod, where I now live, I borrow my grandmother’s ancient Ford Focus to embark on the calm, low-traffic trip into town. I’d willingly agreed with Bernie when she suggested we save money by having only one driver registered on the rental agreement. Logically, that one person was me, as Bernie would be leaving us the day after tomorrow.

The rain continued to fall, the windshield wipers moved back and forth, back and forth.

“Stay awake, Lily,” Bernie said.

“Fear not,” I replied. “I am far too terrified to fall asleep.”

“I hope the rain lets up,” Rose said. “I’m sure they’re planning to have much of the party in the gardens.”

“I hope the rain lets up so we can see the view,” Bernie said. “Looks like some hills over there, but the clouds are so low it’s hard to tell.”

Swish. Swish.

“Exit coming up,” Bernie said. “Look for the sign to Halifax.”

“I see it,” I said.

Another terrifying game of round and round the roundabout, and at last we were free of highways and intercity traffic, heading off into the countryside.

“Are people allowed to park wherever they like?” I said, as I twisted the wheel into a sharp right, taking us into the lane for oncoming traffic to get out of the way of a line of cars unexpectedly parked every which way, half of them half on the sidewalk. I had been temporarily disoriented because the cars were facing us, as though I was going the wrong way on a one-way street.

“Isn’t that charming?” Bernie asked. “Look at those lovely old houses. I bet they’re hundreds of years old. Obviously built long before anyone needed a place to park the car.”

I dared a quick peek to one side. The houses were old, a long row of red and gray brick stretching from one street corner to another, thin and tall, dotted with chimney pots, colorful doors opening directly onto the sidewalk. No driveways, no garages, no place to put the car other than on the narrow street.

“Look,” Bernie said, “A pub. Our first English pub, Lily.”

“We saw pubs in Leeds,” I said. “On the way to get the car.”

“Yes, but that was a city. It’s different. That one looks as though it’s been at that spot for hundreds of years. All the neighborhood goes there. It’s what they call their ‘local.’ Oh my gosh. Look over there—sheep!”

“Sheep in Yorkshire,” Rose said. “What a notion.”

We’d been in Yorkshire for all of about an hour. I’d swear Rose’s accent was getting stronger with every mile we drove.

“Starting to see anything familiar, Rose?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” she replied. “So many things have changed and so much to remember. I’m sure I’ll start recognizing places when we get closer.”

“You’ve been back several times, though,” Bernie said, “right?”

“Back to Yorkshire, but not to Halifax. My parents moved to Holgate in the 1970s, after my father retired, to be closer to one of my sisters and her family. I haven’t been to Halifax for a very long time indeed.”

The GPS instructed me to take the next left. I did so, and we drove through more small towns with streets lined by row houses, open fields full of sheep, more than a few pubs. The rain began to slow, and some of the cloud cover lifted. We were climbing steadily, bouncing down a country road lined by rough drystone walls, dark with age. To my left, the ground fell sharply away. I was too scared to pull my eyes off the road in front of me to take a look.

Rose sucked in a breath.

Bernie half turned in her seat. “You okay, back there?”

“I’m okay, as you put it. And there it is. Behold Halifax.”

“Don’t look Lily,” Bernie said. “I’ll describe it. We’re up way high. The cloud cover is thinning, and I can see a long way down to the valley. Everything is so green. Houses built all up the sides of the hills, the city lies at the bottom. Church steeples and what look like old factories and warehouses. Bridges and train tracks. I bet it looks fabulous in the sunshine.”

“It does,” Rose said, very softly. “It does.”

“Turn right,” Bernie said. “According to the GPS and my phone, we’re almost there.”

“We are,” Rose said. Excitement crept into her voice. “Hazel’s family lived in that farmhouse. They had three sons. She wasn’t needed on the farm, so she worked at Thornecroft.”

“Farm looks prosperous enough,” Bernie said.

It did. Large stone house, barn and outbuildings built around a courtyard. The sheep didn’t bother to look up as we passed.

“Funny how it all starts coming back,” Rose said. “I traveled many times down this road going to the shops in Halifax or to catch a train to visit one of my sisters. Hazel and I were friends at first, but then we had a falling out, so I wasn’t invited to tea at the farm any longer.”

“What did you fall out about?” Bernie asked.

“I don’t remember. Goes to show, doesn’t it? It must have been dreadfully important at the time, and now, I don’t even remember. The McAllisters lived there.” She indicated a substantial two-story house set well back from the road. “Doctor McAllister, he was. They dined quite regularly at Thornecroft, as I recall. He was nice enough—good-looking, everyone thought. His wife was a mouse of a woman in public, but she had a horrible reputation below stairs. These days, they’d say he bullied her and she took it out on the servants.”

“Here we are,” I said at the same time the GPS announced that we had arrived at our destination. “Thornecroft Castle House and Hotel.”

Bernie bounced on the bed. “I can’t believe we’re actually here. England. Yorkshire. Thornecroft Castle. Rose isn’t even my grandmother, but I’ve heard so much about this place, I’ve always felt as though I know it. And now I do!”

I turned from the closet, where I was putting away my clothes, to smile at her. “It worked out nicely that you could come. If I was going to drive the car straight off the side of that cliff, I’d want you to be with me.”

“Nice sentiment. Not.” She bounced again. “Rain’s letting up. Do we have time to explore?”

“Do you want me to leave you half of these hangers?”

“One should do. I’ll hang up the dress I brought for the party to get some of the wrinkles out, but everything else can stay in the backpack.”

I’ll never understand how anyone can live out of a suitcase. Or worse yet, a backpack. If I’m going to be in a hotel for more than one night, everything gets unpacked, folded, hung up, tucked neatly away.

“I hate to complain,” Bernie said.

“Why should today be any different?”

“This place is mighty impressive, but I would have thought our room would be . . . grander.”

I squeezed between the twin bed that would be mine and the desk to take my passport and other things I wouldn’t need until we left out of my purse. “Remind me again how much you’re paying a night.”

“I know. I’m just saying. I was thinking of big double beds with ornate bed frames and heavy velvet curtains. A chaise longue overlooking the perfectly maintained garden and the hills beyond. Red-and-gold wallpaper and tons of gilt on the ceiling. Comfortable chairs around a low table on which to place our tea or a nightcap. A fire in a deep fireplace, big enough to roast one of those many sheep we saw.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to share with me?”

She grinned at me. “Just getting a rise out of you.” She fell back onto her bed and threw out her arms. “We are not honored guests. I’m barely even a tag-along. It was nice of you to share with me, otherwise I’d be sleeping in the barn or the carriage house. Do you suppose they have a carriage house?”

“Almost certainly, although they probably call it the garage.” I picked a folder illustrated with a drone photo of the house and environs off the desk and tossed it onto Bernie’s stomach. “This’ll probably tell you about the history of the house, and I’m sure we can ask anyone.”

“Did you catch the accent on that receptionist who checked us in?”

“I could hardly miss it, Bernie. I thought it was charming. This wing looks like a modern addition. It was likely added when they turned the house into a hotel. Thus, we did not get a room in which Queen Victoria once slept.”

“Pity, that. What are you going to wear to meet Her Ladyship?”

“Black dress and tights, and that red leather jacket. I’d rather be overdressed than underdressed. You?” I looked at my friend. Close to six feet tall, fit and lean, with a scattering of freckles across her pale cheeks, a mane of wild red curls, flashing green eyes, Bernadette Murphy and I had been best friends since the first day of school. I’ve always called her the Warrior Princess.

“I only brought one dress, which I’m saving for the party itself. Jeans and a nice sweater and puffy vest be okay?”

“Sure. We don’t have time to do much exploring the grounds. Rain’s started again, and I don’t want to look like a drowned rat when I meet our hostess.”

When we checked into the hotel, the receptionist had greeted us warmly. As she handed us our keys, she informed us that Lady Frockmorton had invited us to join her for tea in the drawing room at two thirty.

Lady Frockmorton was Elizabeth Crawford, the Dowager Countess of Frockmorton, owner of Thornecroft Castle House and Hotel. It was her one hundredth birthday we’d come all this way to celebrate; although it was Rose who was here for the birthday. I’d come to assist Rose, and Bernie tagged along because she was meeting her boyfriend, my neighbor, Matt Goodwill, in York, in a couple of days.

Promptly at two twenty-five, Bernie and I left our room. We were on the second floor of the new wing, and Rose’s room was below ours. I knocked at her door, and it flew open to reveal my grandmother in all her glory.

“Goodness,” Bernie said.

I might have said something along those lines myself. My grandmother is a woman who loves color—the more the better. Today she wore wide-legged black pants splashed with giant yellow sunflowers, a yellow turtleneck sweater accented by horizontal purple stripes, and a length of purple and orange beads, each one the approximate size of a golf ball. Her makeup was thickly applied, most noticeably, the rouge on her cheeks, dark red lipstick on her mouth, and sparkly blue shadow on her eyelids. She held her pink cane.

“I wanted to make an effort to look presentable for tea with Lady Frockmorton,” Rose said, when Bernie and I had finally closed our mouths. “Imagine, me, having tea with Her Ladyship, not being the one making it or serving it.”

We walked down the hallway to the original house. A white cat, as large and fluffy as a snowdrift, was snoozing on a window ledge. It opened one blue eye as we approached and jumped to the floor. “Who else do you think will be joining us for tea?” Bernie asked. The cat followed.

“The others who’ve arrived today and are staying here, I expect,” Rose said. “Most party guests will likely be from the area, but many will have come from afar. Like us.”

The receptionist directed us down two steps on the far side of the lobby, then left to the drawing room.

I was trying to take it all in—the grandeur of the front hall, the comfortable sitting room next to the lobby, the portraits on the walls, the patina on the antique furniture, the bowls of fresh flowers, the grandfather clock dated 1812—all while keeping one hand on Rose’s elbow on the stairs and finding our way to the drawing room. Bernie collided with me. Or maybe I collided with Bernie.

At the bottom of the steps, signs pointed right to the bar and the restaurant, left to the drawing room and the reception rooms. A young man, dressed in gray slacks, black shirt, with a badge featuring the family coat-of-arms sewn onto his plum jacket, smiled at us. “Mrs. Rose Campbell and company?”

“That is us,” Rose said.

He nodded. “Lady Frockmorton is delighted you will be joining her.” He opened the closest door and gestured for us go in.

Still followed by the white cat, we entered what was obviously a public room, as it was full of round tables of varying sizes, set with white linen tablecloths and silver cutlery, surrounded by chairs. Despite that, it managed to maintain the illusion of being in a private home. The ceiling was low, the wood-paneled walls covered with paintings of hounds at the hunt or pastoral scenes of gently flowing rivers and grazing cattle or sheep, all in ornate gilt frames. The mullioned windows were deeply set into the thick stone walls, diamond-shaped individual glass panels divided by rows and columns of lead. The patterned carpet was modern, the design likely chosen to hide evidence left by the passing public. A huge fireplace filled the far wall; small porcelain statues and large bronze plates lined the mantle. On this cold, wet day, logs burned cheerfully.

I scarcely had a chance to take any of it in. Only one other person was in the room. She was seated in a damask-covered wingback chair in front of a low coffee table, close to the fire. She wore a long dress of deep red velvet, a string of pearls around her neck, and more pearls in her ears. Her short slate-gray hair was thin enough to show patches of pink scalp. Her eyes were a startling shade of dark blue, and they sparked with humor and intelligence as she watched us approach. The deep folds of skin around those eyes, and on her face and hands, told me this was the lady whose hundredth birthday was rapidly approaching.

She looked straight at me. “Rose Walker. After all these years.”

“I’m not—”

“I know, dear. I haven’t totally slipped into the past yet. You are the spitting image of her, so much so, it momentarily took me aback. That heart-shaped face, the lovely skin, the blond hair and blue eyes. A true English rose, our Rose was. And now you.” She turned her smile onto my grandmother. “My dear Rose. Please forgive me for not standing, but I’m afraid I can no longer do so without assistance, so I prefer to remain seated and retain my dignity.” When we came in, I noticed a walker tucked discreetly against the far wall.

“You never stood for me before, m’lady,” Rose said.

Lady Frockmorton threw back her head and laughed. “How well I remember that insolence, and quite fondly. But that American accent you’ve acquired; that will never do.”

American accent? To me, my grandmother had always had an overpowering English accent. It had grown even stronger since we stepped off the plane yesterday morning, and by now it was almost indistinguishable from that of the staff here. Lady Frockmorton’s accent was far less pronounced, more London, I guessed, than Yorkshire. More private education than village school.

Rose crossed the room, pink cane tapping on the carpet. She stood in front of Lady Frockmorton and held out both of her hands. Our hostess took them in hers, and the two old ladies looked at each other for a long time.

Bernie and I eyed each other. It was as though we’d simply disappeared.

The door opened, and a woman dressed in a waitress uniform of thick-soled shoes, black skirt, white shirt, and black leggings came in bearing a silver tray. She began laying the low table for tea.

Rose took back her hands. “My granddaughter, Lily Roberts, and our dear friend, Bernadette Murphy.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” I said. “You have a fabulous home.”

Bernie gulped and nodded, as she was not often at a loss for words. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Bernie at a loss for words.

Four chairs were arranged around the table. We all sat down. I was absolutely delighted that the tea service was Wedgewood Renaissance gold, a modern design of a geometric oval pattern and gold trim. I own a tearoom, and I adore fine china, although this pattern would be far outside of my budget for the restaurant. The cat settled itself in front of the fire.

“Happy birthday, Lady Frockmorton,” I said. I felt somewhat uncomfortable calling her that, but it was her title. Mrs. Crawford might be seen as insulting, and I would never call a lady of her age by her first name without being asked to do so.

“Thank you, my dear. One hundred years, tomorrow. Hard to even imagine what the world was like when I was born. Rose, what are you at now?”

“Eighty-five, next year, m’lady.”

“I insist you call me Elizabeth, please. You are here as my guest, not as a kitchen maid. Lily and Bernadette, I hope you will do the same.”

Rose tried not to show how pleased that made her.

The waitress returned, carrying a laden tray. She placed a silver teapot in front of Lady Frockmorton and jugs of milk and sugar on the table.

“Thank you, Irene,” Elizabeth said. “Shall I pour?”

“Please do,” Rose said, and our hostess picked up the pot. The rich spicy scent filled the room.

“Lapsang Souchong,” I said. “A favorite of mine.”

Her eyes lit up with pleasure as she poured. “You know your teas.”

“I own a tearoom. On Cape Cod. I’m a pastry chef by profession, and afternoon tea is my specialty.”

Elizabeth put down the teapot and clapped her hands in delight. “How marvelous. An inherited trait, I’ve no doubt. Rose’s scones were widely considered the best in Calder-dale.”

“Not by Mrs. Beans,” said Rose.

Elizabeth laughed. “I’m sure. I see you admiring the china, Lily. A gift from one of my sons for my ninety-fifth birthday.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I said, and she smiled at me.

The waitress brought in a plate of small tea sandwiches and another of miniature tarts. “Will there be anything else, Elizabeth?”

“No, thank you, dear. It all looks lovely.”

She left us alone and shut the door behind her.

“The staff call you Elizabeth?” Rose said.

“Only when we are not in public, and I’ve told them this week is my birthday week, so we are not in public. Times have changed a great deal since you were last here, Rose. In many ways for the better. In some ways, not. Some of the young people working here now are descendants of the staff when we were a private home. Family ties run deep in Yorkshire.”

I helped myself to a sandwich studying it before popping it into my mouth. Thin white bread cut into a rectangle. The filling was likely chicken but of a slight yellowish color. I took a bite. Chicken tasting of curry, which would explain the color. It was fabulous, with a rich spicy flavor and a bit of texture from chopped sultanas.

“You’re eating that sandwich like the professional you are Lily,” Elizabeth said. “How is it?”

“Wonderful. I’d like to get the recipe and serve it at my own place.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed by the scaled-down offering today. I can assure you Ian, my head chef, will be pulling out all the s. . .