“When does this festival end?” Abi asked as she reached up for a clean glass.
Mike laughed. “It hasn’t even started yet.” His bank balance would be healthy by the end of it. He wasn’t so sure about his energy reserves.
“Mike?” Jonathon dashed over to the bar. “Something’s wrong.”
Mike jerked up his head and scanned the pub. There seemed to be a commotion over in the corner where Teresa and Professor Harcourt were sitting. He caught Teresa’s raised voice. “No, now!” Something hit the wooden floor with a loud clatter, and suddenly the crowd parted and Professor Harcourt emerged, his arm around Teresa’s waist.
“I’m taking her upstairs to her room,” Professor Harcourt called out. “She needs some medication.” Teresa appeared confused, lurching dizzily toward the door that led to the private part of the pub where the guest room was located, along with Mike’s room.
Mike nodded, his heartbeat speeding up. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Professor Harcourt helped Teresa to the door, and it closed behind them.
“What’s wrong with her?” Mike asked Jonathon.
“No idea. But she looks terrible. Do you want me to go up there?”
Mike shook his head. “She’s in the best possible hands. Didn’t Professor Harcourt say he was a GP once?”
“That’s right.” Jonathon peered toward the corner where they’d been seated. “Oh, they must’ve knocked one of the cups off the table. It’s broken. I’ll clear it up.”
A thud above their heads stilled Mike instantly. “Okay, that wasn’t good.”
Seconds later, Professor Harcourt reappeared, his face pale, his breathing rapid. “Call for an ambulance! Now!” Then he disappeared again.
Mike was out from the behind the bar in a flash. “Call an ambulance,” he yelled to Jonathon. “I’ll go and see what’s happened.” Not waiting for a response, he dashed toward the door, his customers getting out of his way. He took the stairs three at a time, then ran full pelt into the guest room.
Teresa lay on the floor, her feet propped up on the bed, and Professor Harcourt was clearly in the middle of chest compressions, his hair unruly, his breathing harsh. He paused and looked up as Mike approached.
“What happened?”
Professor Harcourt sighed heavily. “Anaphylactic shock, I’d guess.” He applied two fingers to her wrist, then her neck.
“Don’t stop!” Mike stared in horror at Teresa’s still form.
Professor Harcourt’s quietly spoken words confirmed what he already knew. “Too late. She’s gone.” He sat back on his haunches, looking exhausted. “I couldn’t help her. The reaction was too strong.”
“Reaction to what?” This couldn’t be happening.
“Well, we know she was allergic to nuts. I guess we’d better start looking downstairs for a source.”
Cold washed over Mike. “Oh my God. I think I know where we can start.”
“What do you mean?”
All the energy seeped out of him. “Peanuts. There are peanuts on the bar. I meant to ask Abi to remove them, but I forgot.” This was a nightmare.
He’d killed Teresa Malvain.
Chapter Five
PROFESSOR HARCOURT stood carefully. “I hardly think that was the cause of death.” He gazed at Teresa’s body, his expression sorrowful.
“Think about all those people she met downstairs tonight. All it would take would be a few of them with peanut oil on their hands. They transfer it, she touches her lips….” Mike cursed himself for not remembering to say something to Abi.
Professor Harcourt patted Mike’s arm kindly. “Mike, this was fast. So fast that she had difficulty breathing. Maybe if she’d had her EpiPen, things might have been different.”
Mike frowned. “But… surely she’d have carried one with her everywhere. That’s just common sense.”
Professor Harcourt nodded. “Which is why what happened is so strange. I….” He sighed. “Can we go downstairs? There’s nothing I can do here, and to be quite frank, I need a brandy.” His face was drawn and tired.
Mike put his arm around Professor Harcourt’s shoulders. “Sure. The ambulance is on its way, although it may take a while. The nearest hospital is Fareham.” He glanced at the still body. “Not that it matters now when they get here.” He still wasn’t convinced the peanuts hadn’t played a part in Teresa’s death.
They left the room, and Mike closed the door behind them. Silently they went down the narrow staircase and into the bar, which was surprisingly quiet. The pub’s patrons cast glances in their direction, murmuring quietly. Professor Harcourt joined him at the bar, taking an empty stool.
Jonathon walked over to them, his brow furrowed. “Where’s Teresa?”
Mike issued a heavy sigh. “She’s dead. Allergic reaction, Professor Harcourt thinks.” He glanced at the bowls of peanuts.
Jonathon widened his eyes. “Oh my God.” Around them, more mutters and murmurs rose up from the crowd. “Someone should inform Heather. As well as Teresa’s next of kin.”
“She doesn’t have any.” Fiona appeared shocked. “There’s an ex-husband somewhere, but he hasn’t been around for ages.”
Mike shook his head. “How do you know all this?”
Fiona raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’d be amazed the things you learn from reading interviews and posts on social media. And she was on social media a lot. I’m surprised she found time to write, to be honest.” She bit her lip. “Sorry. That was uncalled for, especially in the circumstances.”
A siren’s wail started in the distance, growing louder.
Jonathon sighed. “I’ll show them where to go.” He headed toward the door.
“Thanks,” Mike called out to him. He poured two glasses of brandy and set one down in front of Professor Harcourt, who immediately took a drink. An unearthly quiet had settled over the pub’s occupants, and it disturbed him. “Okay, folks,” he announced loudly. “Yes, we’ve had a death on the premises. Can I ask that you stay in here until they’ve removed the body? Thank you.”
Paul Drake joined him at the bar. “She’s dead, then? That writer?” When Mike nodded, Paul shook his head. “You couldn’t make it up, could you? Murder-mystery writer dies the night before a book festival.” He peered closely at Mike. “Are we talkin’ suspicious circumstances?”
Mike sincerely hoped not.
“So would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” Graham Billings’s deep voice cut through the mutterings that had followed Mike’s announcement. Graham approached the bar, his police helmet in his hand. “Mike? Want to tell me why there’s an ambulance outside?”
“That would be because they’re removing a dead body from my guest room,” Mike explained matter-of-factly.
Graham arched his eyebrows. “Well, of course it would be here,” he said dryly. “Trouble seems to follow you around.” He scanned the pub’s interior. “Where’s Watson?”