Tea for One

A silly little murder mystery: Gerald's dead, I'm afraid.

Feb 19, 2026

This was another story I wrote using a picture prompt (see the photo below) and rolling on a table for three “story tags”. I rolled: 1. Mystery 2. Ominous / Menacing and 3. Freedom, Autonomy

Tea for One

“Bridget! Come in here, won’t you?” Regina’s teacup remained steady in her hand as she called out. “It seems that Gerald is dead.”

The hem of Bridget’s skirt just kissed the hardwood floor as she swept through the doorway. “Oh, I rather doubt that,” she said, but came up short next to her friend. She set her own teacup, still half-full with Darjeerling, on the small, round table.

The two women gazed at the man lying face down on the Turkish rug, elbows bent, hands resting palms-down beside his head. “Well, now,” Bridget said after a moment, “perhaps you’re right.”

+++

Three days earlier

“Do have some tea, Gerald,” Regina said, passing him a delicate cup with a simple rose design on its side. She needed him to drink it. She needed to play nice. But she couldn’t help adding, “And be quiet.”

He took the heavily sugared tea from her, even while complaining, “I’ll not have a woman telling me what to do in my own house. Particularly one who’s not my wife.”

“Fine,” Regina said, turning to her friend, “then you tell him to shut up, Bridget.” But Bridget remained silent. For the best really.

Regina watched Bridget pull at the lace of her collar and glance nervously at Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth. They studied the rims of their cups with great intensity.

Gerald simply grunted and gulped his tea. The cup looked ridiculous in his beefy hand. Good, Regina thought, drink up.

Bridget turned back to Mrs. Hollingsworth, whom Gerald had rudely interrupted moments before, and said, “Please do continue. Your trip to Greece sounds marvelous.”

Gerald snorted audibly. Regina sipped her tea, eyes darting frequently to Gerald, as Charlotte Hollingsworth regaled them with details of days on the pristine sand and napping in the shade of olive trees in the heat of the afternoon, when it was “much too hot to do anything but be lazy.”

“Oh, I would love to travel to Crete one day,” Bridget said.

“Ha!” her husband exclaimed, red-faced and setting down his empty cup much too hard. “We’ll do nothing of the sort. Think of the expense. And all that sun! Beaches filled with foreigners.”

“Well, then,” Bridget said, in a surprising moment of self-advocation, “perhaps Regina and I will just go on our own. You can take care of yourself here, right enough, with the servants to help you.”

Gerald snorted again, and Regina could think of nothing other than a pig when she looked at his too-small eyes in his red, puffy face.

He wasn’t looking well.

Regina looked out upon the gardens, roses coming into bloom, the fountain, and the familiar river in the distance.

“The two of you, traipsing about the Greek isles like a couple of old maids on holiday! Why, you wouldn’t know the first thing about money, or lodging or how to get about on your own.”

Regina retrieved his cup, poured and handed him another cup of tea, sweetened liberally from the small dish of sugar she kept close in front of her.

“It might be nice to get away, visit someplace new,” Bridget said quietly. A light breeze wafted over their table on the verandah.

“Like Hell!” he said, shocking Mrs. Hollingsworth into dropping her embroidered napkin. “Over my dead body! You’ve got all you need and more, right here at home.” In his blustering, he managed to knock over his fresh cup of tea. Damn it. Regina watched the liquid soak into the linen table cloth. Wasted.

The china cup lay on its side next to his plate.

Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth politely took their leave, saying they really must get back to the city before evening, as they had tickets to the theatre. Bridget sighed wistfully. Gerald was not fond of the theatre.

After seeing the couple out, Bridget returned to her seat. “Now see what your ranting has done,” she said without much conviction. “You’ve scared off our guests.”

“And good riddance. That man is such a bore and she’s insufferable with all that yammering.” He popped another bite of chocolate cake into his mouth and said, while chewing, “Much like you.”

Now that the Hollingsworths were gone, Gerald would be even more intolerable, yet Regina could tell from his red cheeks and beads of sweat around his receding hairline, that he was feeling unwell. She smiled.

“Why must we have people round for tea so frequently?” he muttered.

He shifted in his chair.

Bridget looked out at the lawn.

Regina stirred the sugar in her tiny bowl and calculated her next move.

A shame that the second cup had been wasted.

Would this never be finished? It had been weeks of waiting on the man, pouring him tea, trying to be ingratiating. Regina wasn’t built for patience.

She eyed the large knife used to cut the cake, bits of sticky chocolate clinging to it. Would it be sharp enough? She imagined grabbing it and plunging it into his chest, watching his piggish eyes go round in surprise. She shook her head. How un-ladylike, she chided herself. Her mother always said she had too much imagination.

“And you, with your ignorant blather, making it seem as if I don’t provide for you.” Bridget wilted as his voice grew louder. “As if you don’t have everything you need, you ungrateful—”

“Now Gerald,” Regina cut in, voice smooth, “let’s just stop bickering and enjoy this lovely spring day, shall we?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. He didn’t notice.

“Everything you could ever want…” he grumbled, waving one hand over the sweeping gardens, and mopping his brow with the other.

“A spot more tea, Gerald?” Regina offered, as if everything were right as rain. “Extra sugar, the way you like it?”

+++

Three Weeks Earlier

It wasn’t the first time Regina had considered it. She twirled the tiny spoon in her special–private–sugar dish. But each time, her conscience got the better of her.

Bridget’s husband Gerald sat to her left, serving himself a large piece of sponge cake. Dr. Millburgh and his wife sat across. “Go easy, there, Ger,” the doctor scoffed. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve told you about your diabetes? Not to mention your weight.” It was all in good jest, for they knew that Gerald was not about to change his behavior. He did so love his sweets.

The sunlight caught a few fine strands of grey mixed among Bridget’s auburn hair. Regina remembered her best friend’s wedding day, all those years ago, her hair glowing almost fiery in the light streaming through the stained glass windows. And Gerald in his fine suit, thirty pounds lighter and with a look in his eyes that could have been called love. Back then Bridget only had eyes for him.

Now she looked past him, through him, at the gardens, where the marble statue of Nike stood in the fountain surrounded by rose bushes dotted with early buds.

Dr. Millburgh was telling some tale of a country boy who got his leg caught in a barbed wire fence. Gerald laughed loudly. The doctor’s wife smiled blandly, silent discomfort masked as politeness.

Perhaps all men were equally oafish. Regina sipped her tea and pondered her good fortune at having never chosen to marry.

When Bridget reached for the tiny carafe of cream, her sleeve slid up, revealing the skin of her forearm. Regina saw the blackish-blue bruise then, beneath the lace cuff, before Bridget pulled down the fabric to cover it.

So, it was still happening. Despite Bridget’s insistence to the contrary.

Perhaps that was the worst part. Bridget making excuses for him. Covering up his vices.

Gerald set down his empty teacup. “I’ll have another,” he announced.

Regina reached for the teapot before Bridget could. She poured a cup, twirled the spoon in her arsenic-laced sugar bowl thoughtfully, then stirred in a heaping spoonful. “Here you are,” she said, passing the cup to Gerald. “I hope that’s enough sugar for you. If not, I’ll add more.”

+++

Gerald’s untimely death effectively ended the grand tea party which had been taking place on the grounds of Bentwood Estate.

By the time the police and ambulance arrived, the doctor—a guest—had already declared Gerald’s death a heart attack due to his diabetes and general declining health. No surprise in his estimation. The police agreed it was a straightforward matter.

Bridget stood on the sunny front lawn, holding onto Regina’s steady arm, waving goodbye to the last of the visitors. The servants were already bustling to and fro, clearing the tables that had been set out under white awnings. None spoke. It would be time for gossip, and perhaps quiet celebration, later.

“I’m so terribly sorry for the abrupt dismissal,” Bridget said to Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth as they got into their car.

Bridget sighed as she and Regina turned back toward the house. “And it was such a lovely day.”

“Still is,” Regina said. “All things considered.” The sun was beginning to set in a pink and orange haze. The light picked out blazing red highlights in Bridget’s hair.

“I suppose you’re right,” Bridget said. “Let’s sit on the verandah for a while and enjoy it.”

The women took their customary seats at the table overlooking the lawn and the river beyond. The roses were in bloom. The late afternoon sun made the water of the fountain glitter, and highlighted the outstretched wings of the statue of Nike in its center. Bridget looked at the faux-Greek sculpture and said, “I imagine Greece is marvelous this time of year…”

Regina smiled. “Just what I was thinking.” She paused. “Shall we…?”

The question hung in the air for only a sunlit moment, before Bridget snapped it up. “Yes, let’s,” she said, fingers grazing a half-filled teacup left on the table. “I’ll purchase two tickets tomorrow.”

Discussion about this post

Ready for more?