English Tea Murder Read Online Free PDF

sitting in a booth behind a thick Plexiglas window who sold them the cards, collecting twenty-three pounds from each of them.
    “Seems expensive,” complained Lucy.
    “No, no,” said Sue, repeatedly tapping the card on the yellow disk that was supposed to operate the entry gate, but to no effect. “The Tube is fantastic, you’ll see. It will take us everywhere.”
    “If we can get in,” said Rachel.
    “May I?” A tall gentleman togged out in a suit and tie took the card from Sue. “You just touch the back of the card to the disk, like so,” he said, demonstrating. The gates opened.
    A train could be heard arriving at the platform below, so they hurriedly thanked him and dashed for the stairs—a very long flight of stairs. “It’s hopeless. We’ll have to wait for the next one,” said Pam in a resigned tone. But when they reached the platform, an illuminated sign informed them that the next train would arrive in two minutes. “Could that possibly be right?” asked Pam, pointing at the sign.
    When the train pulled in, exactly on schedule, Rachel was impressed. “This is amazing,” she said.
    The train ground to a halt, the doors slid open, and a mellifluous female voice reminded them to “Mind the gap” as they boarded. They were seating themselves on upholstered benches and noting the clean carriage when the voice continued. “This is a Circle Line train. The next stop will be Great Portland Street.”
    Stunned by British efficiency, they rode in silence to Notting Hill Gate, where they were once again urged to mind the gap.
    “Why can’t we have trains that run on schedule in America?” asked Rachel as they emerged from the dim station into the sunny street.
    “And actually let you know where you’re going in clearly understood announcements. The last time I was in Boston, I got the last train of the evening, which I thought was lucky, but unfortunately it didn’t go where I thought. I ended up at the end of the line on some deserted street trying to get a taxi at one in the morning.” Pam’s expression was dark. “Not much fun at all.”
    They were walking past neat white row houses with tiny front gardens behind black-painted iron railings in what seemed to be a very nice neighborhood. Lucy wondered what it would be like to live in one of these houses.
    “Up and down stairs all day,” said Sue, reading her mind.
    It was true, she realized. The houses seemed to be one room wide but were three or four stories tall. You’d get plenty of exercise just getting out of the house in the morning, especially if you forgot something in an upstairs bedroom.
    When they turned the corner onto Portobello Road, they were confronted by a colorful riot of activity. The narrow street was packed with people who jostled their way along the sidewalks and squeezed between the shops and the temporary stalls that filled the street. Most of the shops sold antiques, but there were also restaurants and clothing boutiques, even a Tesco supermarket. The stallholders sold everything from crafts and cheap imports to all sorts of fruits and vegetables, baked goods, meats, and even fish. One enterprising man had set up three enormous paella pans and was browning chicken pieces in sizzling oil; on the ground beneath the huge braziers, plastic bins full of shellfish were ready to hand. The air was full of scents: cooking chicken, fish, fragrant flowers, incense. Suddenly, Lucy felt quite dizzy and stumbled against a T-shirt stall.
    “Whoa, there,” exclaimed Sue, reaching out to steady her.
    Rachel took one look at Lucy’s white face and made an executive decision. “We need lunch.”
    Fortunately there was a nearby café, and they took an outside table. Pam kept Lucy company, basking in the warm March sunshine, while Rachel and Sue placed orders for tea and sandwiches.
    “I feel so foolish,” said Lucy, who was still a bit dizzy.
    “Don’t be silly.” Pam sounded tired. “We’ve all had a terrible shock, but you