A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  It was Roz who seemed to recover from the shock first. “Viv, darling, I am so sorry. This must be dreadful for you.”

  Viv shook herself as if coming up from deep water. “I can’t believe it. Surely there’s been some mistake?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the young man with the salad greens. “You okay, Viv?”

  When no one else spoke, Gemma took it on herself to explain. “A chef Viv used to work for. In London. He was killed last night.”

  “Along with Nell Greene,” said Addie. “You remember Nell, Joe?”

  Joe looked blank.

  “I’ll just go fetch the children,” Gemma began again, jumping up, when there was a chorus of barks and the two girls, followed by the dogs, came running from the direction of the glasshouse.

  “Mummy,” said Grace, tugging at Viv’s apron. “Joe left us. You said he should stay with us.”

  “I was coming right back.” Joe shot her a frown.

  Always quick to pick up on tension in the air, Charlotte attached herself to Gemma, burying her face in Gemma’s shirt.

  “Well, you’re all here now,” Addie said briskly. “And we’ve some decisions to make. Viv, I know this must be terribly upsetting. If you feel you can’t go on—”

  “No.” Viv stood, too. “No. Of course I’m not going to let you down. But we’ve got to get moving. I’ll—I’ll deal with all this later.”

  “Right.” Addie nodded her approval. “It’s eleven o’clock. The guests are due to arrive at twelve thirty. Roz, can you get your village ladies here to help with the serving? And, Viv, what do you need us to do?”

  Viv’s back grew visibly straighter. “Joe, we’ll need more greens. And someone to wash and dry them, then arrange them on the plates. We need the tables completely set, and the jugs and ice ready for the prelunch Aperol cocktails. Addie, if you could—”

  “Mummy.” Grace tugged at Viv’s apron with more force. “What happened? Why were the police here?”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.” Viv wrapped an arm round her daughter. “There was an accident. Last night. You know Mrs. Greene, the nice lady with the collie—?”

  “Of course I do,” interrupted Grace. “I’ve helped Mark with Bella’s training.”

  “Of course you have.” Viv turned Grace to face her. “I’m afraid Mrs. Greene died in the accident.”

  Grace digested this, her small face creased in a frown. “Who’s going to look after Bella?” she asked.

  “She’s with Mark,” Addie told her. The penny dropped for Gemma. Mark was the man that Addie had called last night. “I’m sure he’ll take good care of her until someone can be found to take her—”

  “No,” Grace wailed, starting to cry. “I don’t want Bella to go away—”

  “Hush, hush now, love. We can talk about that later.” Viv pulled her daughter into a hug while sending an imploring glance at Addie. “Mummy has to get to work now.”

  “You always have to work.” Grace, still sniffing, pulled away from her mother.

  “Charlotte,” said Gemma, giving her own daughter a squeeze, “why don’t you take Grace to watch for your brothers. They should be here any—speak of the devil,” she added as the terrace doors opened and Melody came out, followed by Doug and the boys.

  Gemma found herself extraordinarily glad to see them all, but even in the midst of the greetings and introductions, she couldn’t help wondering why Viv had failed to tell Grace that there had been another victim in last night’s accident.

  Melody hadn’t expected to come back to a crisis. After quick introductions, her mother took her aside and explained the situation.

  “Fergus O’Reilly,” Melody whispered, glancing at Viv. “I can’t believe it. What the hell was he doing here, of all places?” He’d been big in the London restaurant scene for a few years, but she realized she hadn’t heard much about him recently.

  “Well, whatever it was, we’ve got to get this lunch organized,” Addie said, and Melody could feel the fizz of her energy. Addie nodded towards Doug, standing on the edge of the terrace, looking out over the gardens. “But first you should see to your friend. He looks a bit lost.”

  When Melody reached Doug, he glanced at her, then went back to his gazing. The lawns and the borders were beginning to shimmer as the sun inched towards midday, and the air was heavy with the scent from the roses on the pergola. “You’re full of bollocks, you know that?” Doug said.

  “What? What are you talking about?” That was the last thing Melody expected.

  “This. You said you didn’t know anything about gardening.”

  “I don’t. Not really,” Melody protested.

  “This”—Doug waved a hand at the vista—“this is a Gertrude Jekyll garden. I’ve been reading, you know.”

  “Well”—Melody hesitated—“you can say it’s an approximation of a Jekyll garden. The house was built in 1905, so it’s appropriate. But it’s not an exact copy.”

  Doug shook his head. “You are such a liar. You said you didn’t know anything, and you live with this.”

  “Lived with this. Summers and holidays.” Melody was irritated now. “And it’s Mum’s thing, not mine. As it was my grandmother’s before that. I was riding ponies when I wasn’t at school.”

  “Still—”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Okay, so maybe I absorbed a little bit. I was friends with the old bloke who used to help out. How do you think I knew where to put your herbaceous borders, and what should go in them? Maybe I just didn’t want to sound like a conceited git.”

  Doug’s lips relaxed at the corners and she knew she’d got him. “God forbid you should sound conceited.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, I knew you were posh, but this—”

  “What? You thought my parents lived in a hut? Get over yourself, Dougie. Who’s the Eton Old Boy? You must have gone home with mates who lived in freaking Downton Abbey.”

  When she saw his expression, she knew she’d touched a nerve. Doug had indeed gone to Eton, but he’d been a scholarship boy, his father a solicitor in St. Albans. Doug’s inferiority complex had followed him ever since.

  Melody gave his arm a little shake. “Never mind. I did go home with friends like that, and I guarantee you didn’t miss much. Now, as posh as we may be, we have work to do. And there’s something else.” She told him about O’Reilly.

  The light glinted off Doug’s glasses as he turned to look at her. “Bloody hell. That’s a turnup. Does Duncan know?”

  “Mum rang Dad, so I’d assume so.” Melody glanced back at the terrace. The children were playing with the dogs. Her mother and Gemma were finishing the tables. Viv had disappeared, presumably to oversee the kitchen, and Roz must be rounding up the village helpers. “What I don’t understand,” Melody said thoughtfully, “is why Viv never said she’d worked with Fergus O’Reilly. Surely, as a chef, a name like that would have made her reputation.”

  Kit stood at the scullery sink, washing salad leaves. He’d offered to help the gardener, Joe, carry the pails from the greenhouse. Then, once inside, he’d seen what looked like dismay on the chef’s face as she contemplated the job ahead. Shyly, he’d volunteered.

  “Good lad,” she’d said, seeming to really see him for the first time, and he’d flushed uncomfortably. “You know how to do it, right? Make certain to get all the grit out, but be gentle. The leaves will tear easily.”

  Kit nodded. “I do it all the time at home.”

  “You know how to dry them, then, too?” Chef Viv dug in one of the plastic crates stacked by the sink. “Here’s a stack of clean tea towels. You can lay the leaves out on those and pat them dry, then fold them in the damp towels so that they’ll stay fresh until we can plate them. Oh, and pick out any damaged leaves, okay?”

  “Got it,” Kit had told her, with more confidence than he felt. But it was an easy enough task, as long as he was careful. When the chef had gone into the main kitchen, he’d nibbled a damaged leaf before tossing it in the
bin. It tasted slightly bitter, but really fresh, and somehow even more like salad than the produce from the veg stalls at Portobello Market. He wondered what she meant to do with it.

  He was almost finished with the second pail when he heard talking from the kitchen. A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize said, “Viv! I came as soon as I heard. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Christ, Bea,” said Chef Viv. “I can’t believe it. How could he? How could he do this?” She sounded near tears.

  “I don’t think he meant to get himself killed, darling,” the person called Bea soothed. “For all his faults, that’s the last thing I can imagine.”

  “But why here? And what was he doing with her, of all people?” Viv groaned. “Oh, that sounds terrible, as if I didn’t care about poor Nell. But, Bea, they want me to . . . to identify— I don’t know if I can—”

  “I know, darling. I’ll come with you, don’t worry.”

  “But what am I going to tell—”

  The scullery door slammed open and Grace, the gangly kid with the glasses, came bursting in. “Mum? Mum?”

  “In here, love.”

  “Lady Addie says, do we need a spoon for each pudding?” Grace called without going into the kitchen, giving Kit a shy glance.

  “No, just one is fine. They get to choose one pudding, not both. They can pass them round if they want.”

  “Okay.” Grace grinned at Kit and banged out again.

  “Do you need a hand in here?” came Bea’s voice again. “I’d better pay my respects to Addie and see what needs doing out there.”

  “No, you go on. I’ve got things in hand for the moment. And I’ve a helper in the scullery.”

  A moment later, a small, dark-haired woman popped her head round the kitchen door. “Oh, hello,” she said. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Kit. Kit McClellan.” Kit wiped his hand on a tea towel and held it out to her.

  With a raised eyebrow, the woman took it and said, “Ooh, manners. How nice. Viv certainly knows how to pick her labor.” With that, she went out onto the terrace. There had been something condescending in her manner that rubbed Kit the wrong way. Why did everyone think teenagers were boors?

  Chef Viv came back into the scullery carrying a tray filled with foil-wrapped packets and began placing the packages in the scullery warming oven.

  “What are those?” Kit asked.

  “Flatbreads to go with the lamb and white beans. I made them this morning. We’ll keep them on low until time to serve them.” Coming over to Kit, she lifted the tea towels and examined his lettuces. “Great job.” When she smiled at him, he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.

  Kit didn’t know what she and Bea had been talking about, but obviously it was bad—someone had died. He didn’t feel he could ask, though, so instead, he said, “Who was that lady who just came through?”

  “Oh. That was Bea. She’s my business partner. She’s in charge of front of house at my pub.”

  “Oh, right,” Kit said, nodding. “And you’re back of house.”

  Viv looked at him curiously. “You know a bit about restaurants?”

  “I have a friend who’s a chef.” Wesley might say he was stretching it a bit, but then Wesley never gave himself credit. “And I like doing things in the kitchen.”

  “Hmm.” Viv eyed him speculatively. “Do you think you could plate these greens for me? It will be a bit fiddly.”

  “I can do fiddly.”

  “Right, then. I’ll show you.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a tall stack of mismatched china salad plates. Taking one, she arranged a handful of salad leaves, placing them carefully. “See, some of them are darker or redder, so see if you can use those for accents, a bit like a painting. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Taking a plate, Kit did his best to copy her, hoping she wouldn’t notice his nerves.

  “Very nice.” Viv tweaked a leaf. “You have a good eye. Just keep that up and we’ll have you working the cold line in a real restaurant.”

  “What goes on this?” he asked, to cover his embarrassment at the compliment.

  “You’ll see.” This time her smile reached her eyes.

  Grace came in again from the terrace as Kit was beginning to run out of room on the scullery work top for the salad plates. “Wow,” she said. “My mum let you do that?”

  Kit shrugged. “She said it was okay.”

  “She never lets me do anything. She says I’m too young.” Grace sounded aggrieved.

  “Would you like to help her?” Kit asked.

  Frowning, Grace chewed her lip. “Well, yeah. ’Course I would. I get really tired of being told I can’t do things.”

  “Part of being a kid, I guess.” Kit finished another plate and stepped back to check his handiwork. “How old are you?” he asked, glancing at her. Her glasses looked too big for her small face, and her hair was a tangle that could have held birds’ nests.

  “Eleven. People think I’m older because I’m tall for my age.”

  Kit hid a grin. He’d put her at ten.

  “How old are you?” Grace asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  Kit felt embarrassed by her awe. “Look, can you help me make room for some more of these plates?”

  “Sure.” Together they moved some canisters to the back of the work top and shifted plates, Kit keeping an eye on Grace to make sure she was careful.

  “Do you live in the pub?” he asked. Melody had pointed it out to him as they’d passed through the place with the funny name—Lower Slaughter. The sight of the village had given him a pang. It reminded him of where he’d lived in Cambridgeshire until he was eleven, before his mum died.

  “Behind it,” Grace said. “There’s a separate cottage.”

  “That must be cool.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Not really. I want to live in a real house. With a dog. And you know, like a normal life.”

  “Nobody’s life is normal.”

  That earned him another eye roll. “You sound like my mum.”

  “Well, it’s true.” Kit went back to plating greens. Maybe he could ask Grace about the conversation in the kitchen. “I heard your mum say somebody died.”

  “Yeah. A lady. Nell. She was nice. I helped train her dog.” The girl looked down and brushed her hands on her jeans. “I never knew anybody who died before. It’s weird.” She seemed younger than eleven then, and Kit felt suddenly ancient.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

  Chapter Eight

  They were late.

  After leaving police headquarters, Ivan had driven back through Cheltenham, insisting that Kincaid see his GP. “No point in taking you to A and E,” Ivan said. “The wait would be hours.”

  “But I’m fine,” Kincaid had protested.

  Ivan shot him a glance. “Obviously, you’re not. You wince every time you move and I can see that your hand is useless. I’ve already rung my doctor. She’s meeting us at her surgery. At the very least she can give you some tablets for the pain.”

  Having realized by now that trying to stop Ivan Talbot in action was akin to trying to halt a juggernaut, Kincaid had said merely, “I’ll not be responsible to Addie if we miss the lunch.” The truth was that his ribs and his hand hurt like hell, and his head felt like someone was pounding it with an anvil.

  He’d expected some snazzy upmarket practice, but the surgery occupied the ground floor of a Georgian town house and the rooms were just worn enough to feel comfortable.

  “Saunders,” the doctor said, when Ivan introduced him. “Ivan said you had a bit of a banging. Let’s have a look at you.”

  Leaving Ivan in the waiting room, she sat Kincaid on a scuffed leather exam table and had him take off his shirt. “Bit difficult for you, doing things left-handed, I see,” she commented, examining his right hand with strong but gentle fingers. “Well, I don’t think you’ve broken anything here.” Moving on to his ribs, she pressed until he l
et out a grunt of pain. Then she held a cold stethoscope to his bare back and had him take deep breaths.

  “Well, I don’t think you’ve punctured anything,” said Dr. Saunders. “I’m going to give you some painkillers. But if you feel any difficulty breathing, it’s straight to the A and E. Got that?”

  Kincaid nodded carefully.

  “Right, then,” she said. “Let’s have a look at your head.” She’d shined a light in his eyes, then manipulated his head and face with the same gentle fingers. “I’m going to give this cut on your forehead a couple of stitches,” she told him. “Unless you’d really like to have a battle scar.”

  “Don’t want to give my kids any copycat ideas,” Kincaid managed, closing his eyes and trying not to flinch as she applied a local anesthetic. As she worked, he said, “How is it that you know the Talbots?”

  “Oh, everyone round here knows the Talbots.” Kincaid could hear the amusement in her voice. “But my dad was doctor to the Manns—that’s Addie’s parents—and my grandfather was doctor to her grandparents. Addie and I were at the same boarding school.”

  Cheltenham, it seemed, was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. “Did you know the woman who died in the accident last night?” he asked. “Nell Greene? I was told she was an administrator at the hospital here.”

  “Yes, I knew Nell. Ivan told me what happened.” Dr. Saunders snipped a piece of tape and applied it to his forehead. “I was sorry to hear it. And just when she was beginning to put herself back together.” She snipped again and applied more tape with firm pressure. “Now, that should do you, but if you have any dizziness or headaches that last for more than a day, you should get a scan.”

  With that cheerful rejoinder, she left him to put on his shirt and join Ivan.