Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember.
She’d made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course—fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she’d done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel. This was the course that had given her the most worry. It checked every foodie box, but would require last-minute assembly in the Beck House kitchen, and a good bit of willing volunteer help. She couldn’t pull Ibby or Angelica from the pub kitchen on a busy autumn Saturday.
When the back door creaked open, she thought it might be Ibby, there to start lunch prep, but it was Bea, looking considerably the worse for wear. Her dark hair was tousled, her eyes shadowed, and instead of her usual work uniform of dark skirt and white blouse she wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt.
Bea headed straight for the coffee machine. When she’d started a cup, she turned to Viv. “Now, are you going to tell me what that was all about last night? Why the hell would you let him come here?”
“I didn’t let him,” Viv protested, all her calm from a moment before vanishing. “I have no idea how he tracked me down.”
“I’ll tell you how. It was this damned lunch.” Bea waved a hand at Viv’s carefully prepared courses. “You bloody well know it was. One of the food critics Addie Talbot invited had to have mentioned it. I told you this whole thing was a bad idea.”
“Look.” Viv wiped her hands on her apron and fetched the cream for Bea’s coffee from the fridge. She hated seeing Bea so upset. Bea was the rock in their partnership, the dependable and steady half, and when she’d agreed to Addie Talbot’s plan, she’d had no idea that Bea would be so set against it. But, then, she hadn’t foreseen Fergus popping up, either. “It will be fine,” she said, handing Bea the bottle. “He’ll not come back after last night.” She knew she was reassuring herself.
“No?” Bea was still scowling. “Not even for the camel hair coat he left in the bar?”
As Duncan and Ivan left the breakfast table to get ready for their run to Cheltenham, Gemma heard Melody’s phone ding with a text. Frowning, Melody tapped an answer, then glanced up at Gemma, who’d stood to clear the table. “Um, slight change of plans,” she said. “That was Doug. He and the boys are coming early. So I’ll run pick them up now, if you don’t mind giving Mummy a hand in the garden.”
“Wait.” Gemma gave Melody a sharp look. “Why didn’t they tell us they were coming early? What about Toby’s class?” Realization dawned. “You told Doug about the accident, didn’t you?”
“I might have just texted him last night.” Melody smiled a little apologetically. “Can you imagine what he’d have said if he’d shown up at noon and no one had told him what happened to Duncan?”
Gemma had to admit she had a point. And she would be glad to have the boys with them sooner rather than later—although she wasn’t sure that Toby’s presence would help with the luncheon prep. Still, she didn’t like being left out of the loop. “I can pick them up, if you don’t mind me borrowing your car,” she said, realizing how much she really hated being dependent on someone else for transport.
“No, I’ll go.” Melody was already grabbing her bag from the sideboard. “I know the way, and the train’s due in twenty minutes. Don’t worry about the washing up. I’ll do it when I get back.” Then she was gone.
Gemma gazed after her. Duncan had been right about the Talbot bossiness. She’d been managed, and she wondered if there was more to Melody’s tactic than convenience.
From the garden came the Jack Russell’s high-pitched yips, and Charlotte’s even more shrill squeal of excitement. Gemma realized she’d left the child in Addie’s care too long. She stacked the breakfast plates in the sink and headed for the French doors that led to the terrace.
She stepped out into the crisp morning and stopped, her breath catching at the sight that greeted her. Last night, she’d only glimpsed the garden through the windows in the fading dusk, and then her gaze had been caught by the distant hills.
Now, she marveled at the riot of color and symmetry spread before her. The flagged terrace merged into a smooth expanse of emerald lawn anchored by a rose-draped pergola. Two long tables had been set up in the grass on either side.
At the lawn’s edge she could see drifts of flowers bisected by a shallow flight of steps, and beyond that, more green lawns and steps, leading her eyes down to the curve of the little river.
On either side of the top lawn, double herbaceous borders blazed in a profusion of late-summer reds and golds. She’d no idea so many different flowers even existed.
“Mummy!” Charlotte came running to her from the pergola, the terrier at her heels. “I’ve been throwing the ball for Polly. She likes it.”
“I’ll bet she does.” Gemma gave her a squeeze. Mac the deerhound lay in a patch of shade cast by the pergola, massive head on his paws, watching Charlotte as if he’d been given the charge.
“There’s a bowling lawn, and a tennis lawn. Miss Addie says we can play after the lunch.”
“Where is Miss Addie?” Gemma asked, a little concerned that Charlotte had been left on her own. But just then, the big dog raised his head, and she saw Addie coming from the left, her arms filled with a bundle of fabric.
“Just getting the tablecloths,” Addie explained. “I had them in the glasshouse.”
Gemma thought she must have meant greenhouse, but when she looked in that direction she saw that it was, quite literally, a glass house, glass and white wrought iron with a peaked roof.
“My grandfather’s folly,” said Addie, following her gaze. “Or at least so everyone thought at the time. It’s Victorian. He found it on an estate that was being razed in the thirties, had it taken down and reassembled. A good thing, too, as otherwise the iron might have gone for scrap in the war. Now, of course, the glasshouse is priceless.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Gemma. “And the garden, it’s—” She shook her head and waved a hand at the surroundings. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s spectacular.”
Addie smiled. “We’ve made an effort to return it to something like its Edwardian glory. Jekyll-esque, if not pure Gertrude Jekyll.” Gemma’s incomprehension must have shown, because she added, “Gertrude Jekyll was the most brilliant of the Arts and Crafts garden designers. Family letters say she consulted with the architect who designed the house, but we’ve never found any actual plans. I’ll give you a proper tour after lunch. But in the meantime,” she went on, dumping the red-and-white-checked bundle on one of the hire tables, “we’d better get a move on. Where’s Melody?”
“Oh. I came to tell you.” Gemma explained about the early arrival and the train. “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a bit.”
Addie glanced at her watch. “My assistant, Roz, should be here soon, and she’s rounded up some of the village ladies to help with the serving. So if you could just help me get the tables laid—” Her phone dinged. Checking the text, she said, “That’s Viv, our chef. She’s in the drive and the house is locked. Would you mind letting her in? She’s got things for the kitchen.”
Gemma checked to make sure Charlotte wasn’t being a nuisance, but she was sitting quietly on the top step, the terrier beside her. “Of course.”
Hurrying back through the house, she opened the front door. A woman in a chef’s jacket and checked trousers was pulling plastic tubs from the back of a small van. She was slender—perhaps a little too thin—with short, blond, carelessly spiked hair. Beside her stood a girl, hands in hoodie pockets, a scowl on her small bespectacled face. Her mop of light brown hair was almost as curly as Charlotte’s.
“Hi, I’m Gemma. Addie sent me to help.”
The woman set the tub down and held out a hand to Ge
mma. “I’m Viv. Viv Holland. And this is my daughter, Grace.”
The girl managed a nod and a mumbled “Nice to meet you,” but kept her gaze firmly on Gemma’s feet.
“Tell me what goes where,” Gemma said, gesturing at the van’s contents.
“Everything in the scullery to start with. Then we can sort it out.” Viv handed Gemma the tub she’d set down, then picked out a smaller one for Grace. “Here, love, take the pears. They’re not so heavy. You know where to go.”
As Viv pulled out a cool box, Grace trudged towards the open front door as if the tub were filled with lead.
“She’s eleven,” Viv said with a sigh.
“Oh. That explains it, then,” Gemma replied with a grin. Now, she saw that Viv Holland was not as young as she’d first thought, and that she looked hollow-eyed with exhaustion.
“You have kids?” Viv asked as they entered the house.
“Three. My daughter’s in the garden with Addie, and the boys should be here any moment with Melody.” She followed Viv through the kitchen into a room she hadn’t noticed, a right angle in the far corner of the house. There was a utility sink, a dishwasher, a large fridge, and two built-in warming ovens. A door opened onto the terrace. The far end of the room held racks of Wellies and pegs for anoraks.
Grace went out onto the terrace and ran to greet the dogs, suddenly looking more like a child than a sulky preteen.
“Is it just you and Addie, then?” she added with a frown, glancing out. “I thought Nell was helping out this morning.”
“Nell?” Gemma echoed, realizing with dismay that Viv hadn’t heard the news.
“Yeah. Nell Greene, from the village. Nice woman. She’s supposed to be doing the setup.”
“Viv.” Gemma touched her arm. “I’m sorry, but there’s something you should know.”
Chapter Five
“Why is it,” asked Ivan, “that senior police officers are always total idiots in films and on the telly? I haven’t found that to be the case.” He gave Kincaid a sideways glance. “And you’re a superintendent, after all.”
“But not a chief superintendent,” Kincaid replied with a grin. “Therein lies the difference.”
“Well, your own super—former super, I should say—is not bad at all, and I think you’ll pass ACC Shelton. Why haven’t you gone for promotion?” added Ivan, this time keeping his eyes on the road.
“Because I don’t play golf,” Kincaid quipped, refusing to be drawn, even by Ivan.
“Neither do I,” said Ivan. “Bloody waste of time, if you ask me.”
Kincaid surveyed the workaday interior of Ivan’s country car. It was a classic Land Rover Defender from the 1980s, dark blue and lovingly restored. His father would love it, but it was certainly unexpected for a man of Ivan’s position.
He wondered how Ivan Talbot managed to navigate the spaces between his working-class background and his roles as a newspaper baron and a country gent with such apparent ease. “Isn’t it expected of you, the golfing?” he asked.
“The nice thing about money,” Ivan said, “I learned early on. You don’t have to do what people expect. Not that folks expected much of me in the beginning,” he added with a shrug of his big shoulders.
“That didn’t bother you?”
“I came from a two-up, two-down with the necessary in the back garden. My nan struggled to put tea on the table. How could they damage me? Not to mention I had Addie and the paper. Folks could think what they liked.”
Kincaid thought that one of the secrets to Ivan’s success—and his integrity—was just that: he met no one’s expectations but his own.
The green rolling countryside had flashed by them as they left the village, and it wasn’t until Ivan pulled to a stop at a T-junction that he realized where he was. The depressions left by the wrecked cars were still visible in the turf on the opposite verge. “Wait,” he said. “This is where she—Nell Greene— She must have come this way.”
Checking the rear mirror, Ivan idled the Land Rover at the stop. “This road’s the fastest way from the village to Cheltenham or Gloucester. All the surrounding villages use it.”
“But—” Kincaid surveyed the junction with dismay. “If she used this road regularly, how could she miss the stop?”
“Nell Greene, you mean?”
Kincaid nodded. His head hurt and he felt suddenly queasy. Why did he keep smelling blood?
“Maybe she felt ill,” Ivan suggested.
“Yes, but—” Kincaid stopped. That didn’t explain the dead passenger. Damn. He hated not having access to information. Maybe the local force had an identity on the man. Ivan turned into the main road and they left the junction behind, but that didn’t stop the scene from replaying in Kincaid’s head.
“Sorry, mate.” The man at the recovery yard in Cheltenham shook his head as Kincaid surveyed what remained of the Astra. “We’ve sent photos to your insurer. I’m sure they’ll be in touch. On the plus side, we recovered your mobile phone and an overnight bag. They’re in the office.”
But the phone, when removed from its plastic bag, was a total loss, its screen and casing shattered.
Ivan, who had come into the office with him, touched him on the shoulder. “Phone shop first, police station second.”
While Ivan drove to a nearby shopping district, Kincaid tried to come to grips with the loss of the car. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but seeing it had still been a shock. It was stupid, he knew. The Astra had little monetary value, and they had all hated it. But it had been a gift from his dad, and somehow the destruction of the car brought home his dad’s fragile health. He would have to tell his parents the car was gone. And then what? He had no idea what he would do to replace it.
While Kincaid dealt with the purchase of a new mobile phone and the data transfer, Ivan brought them coffee from a nearby Caffè Nero.
“I remembered how you liked it from breakfast,” Ivan said as they walked back to the Land Rover. “All set?”
Kincaid scrolled through text messages. There was one from Gemma: “Doug and boys coming early. All under control. Love you.”
“Yes.” Kincaid looked up, trying to place where they were on the map of Cheltenham he’d looked at that morning. “Are we close enough to walk to the station?”
“Not unless you’re very fit,” said Ivan. “We’re going to county HQ outside Gloucester.”
“Wally! Sprig!” Mark Cain whistled his dogs to him in the farmyard, then added, “Bella, good girl,” as the black-and-white bitch trotted behind them. He rubbed her head as she came to him, then finished locking the four-wheeler in the barn. He’d done his morning check on the flocks, Bella following the other dogs without much prompting, but he wondered how she’d do left on her own in the house when she’d been used to Nell being home most of the day.
Well, needs must. She’d have to get used to it, at least for the time being. He hadn’t heard from anyone about the dog and had no idea who to contact. He’d ask Addie at the luncheon.
He checked his phone for at least the tenth time that morning, but there was nothing from Addie, and still no call or text from Viv. Damn it, he was starting to feel like some kind of stalker. When he’d gone to the pub last night, he’d found only the waitstaff, closing up. Jack, Sarah said, had left early, and Viv had gone to bed, big day tomorrow and all that. When he’d rung Viv again from the courtyard, his call had gone straight to voice mail.
His irritation had turned to unease. They might not have an official relationship, but Viv had certainly never avoided him. Something was wrong, really wrong, and he’d sworn in frustration because he’d no idea what it was. The news about Nell had been bad enough without this added worry.
Leaving the pub, he’d gone back up the lane to Nell’s cottage and let himself in with the key neatly labeled nell with sticky tape.
Of course she’d labeled her key, he’d thought. Organized to a T, that was Nell. It had been her one fault in training Bella, always wanting to follow the rules
. Sometimes, with dogs and sheep, you had to follow your instincts.
Was it instinct that had failed her on the road?
He’d entered the dark house with reluctance. It felt intrusive, and he hadn’t been able to shake the idea that Nell might just be asleep, that there had been some terrible mistake. But the cottage had been silent, and Bella had been frantically happy to see him, and to go out. When she’d finished her business, she jumped willingly into the Land Rover. Going back into the house for the dog’s bed, he’d stood for a moment in Nell’s kitchen. The place was as neat as Nell herself. The only thing out of place was a copy of the Times folded to the day’s crossword, half finished, pencil beside it. He’d closed the door and locked it firmly behind him.
Now, he shut the dogs in the kitchen and drove the Land Rover down to the pub. The village was starting to fill up with walkers, cars lining every available space on the verges, but the pub’s “customers only” car park was still empty. There was a half hour yet to morning coffee. But Viv’s van, he saw immediately, was already gone.
Going in through the main door, he found Jack already behind the bar, his usually cheerful face set in a scowl. The pub smelled welcoming, like coffee and baking bread. Viv had told him that morning coffee was a growing moneymaker for pubs, and that it was well worth it to stock top-tier coffee and serve fresh-baked pastries. The scents, however, were obviously not working their magic on Jack this morning. “Did you see them?” he asked, before Mark could even greet him.
“What? Who?” asked Mark, stopping at the bar.
“Bloody police.” Jack shook his head. “Asking about Nell Greene. Have you heard what happened to her?”
Mark nodded. “I’ve got her dog. Addie Talbot rang me last night.”
“Addie? How did the Talbots find out before anyone else in the village?” Jack sounded incensed.
A Bitter Feast Page 5
