Soon the party would be breaking up. Gemma sighed again and stretched, wondering if she’d be able to cadge a cup of tea while helping with the clearing up, and if she could get Kincaid to go upstairs for a rest.
The colors in the garden suddenly dimmed. Looking up, she saw that the recent flutter of breeze had heralded a smattering of fast-moving clouds. Within moments, they had spread over the brilliant blue sky like a sugar glaze on a cake. She shivered, suddenly chilled, and wondered if she might fetch a cardigan. Glancing towards Addie at the head of the table, she waited for the signal to rise.
Addie stood, tapping her spoon on a glass. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us today, for the best the Cotswolds have to offer. We hope you will—” She stopped, giving a startled glance at the house. Turning to follow her gaze, Gemma saw that Roz Dunning had come out onto the terrace, followed by a big, dark-skinned man in a very dark suit. The man stood for a moment, surveying the group. Between the suit, the posture, and the expression on his face, he might as well have had “cop” emblazoned on his forehead. And not just “cop,” but “detective.”
Gemma’s heart sank. So much for the salvaged weekend. Whatever had brought him, it was official, and it was not good news.
Chapter Nine
Kincaid stood up so quickly that he tipped over his folding chair, wrenching his arm in the process of righting it. What the hell was Colin Booth doing here? In his dark suit, he looked like a crow among the summer pigeons. Ivan had already risen and was heading towards the terrace. Addie, Kincaid realized, had quickly recovered her poise and was thanking the guests.
When Kincaid reached the terrace a moment behind Ivan, Booth was saying quietly, “So sorry for the interruption, Sir Ivan. But I’ve had a word with the pathologist, and she’s found an excess of digitalis in our male accident victim’s system.”
“Digitalis?” said Ivan, frowning. “Isn’t that foxglove?”
“Yes. At least as a precursor. Apparently, once it’s broken down in the body, it’s hard to differentiate between digitalis and its derivative digoxin.”
“That’s heart medication.”
“Used for a number of conditions,” agreed Booth, “or at least that’s what the good doctor tells me. So it’s essential that we learn—”
“Have you confirmed his identity?” Kincaid broke in.
Instead of meeting Kincaid’s eyes, Booth shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and surveyed the garden. “I had a look at him. As far as I can determine, yes. But we’ll need an identification from someone who knew him better personally.”
Kincaid guessed at Booth’s discomfort. It was one thing to deal with the death of a stranger, but quite another to be faced with someone you knew, however casually or briefly.
“What about Nell Greene?” he asked.
“The pathologist is running the tests now.”
“Wait.” Ivan looked from Booth to Kincaid. “Surely you’re not suggesting that they were poisoned?”
Booth shifted on his feet. “I can’t say, sir. But we will have to ask some questions about Mr. O’Reilly, ascertain what he might have been taking, or have, um, encountered. And I need that formal ID as soon as possible.”
Addie appeared at Ivan’s side. “What seems to be the problem, darling?”
Ivan put a casual arm across her shoulders. “Addie, this is Detective Inspector Booth, from Gloucester CID. Inspector Booth, my wife, Lady Adelaide. Inspector Booth needs a word—in private—with Viv. It’s about last night’s accident.”
“Of course.” Addie gave Booth her most gracious public smile. “Let me see what I can arrange. Ivan and I have to attend to our guests, but perhaps we can deputize our daughter to help you.” She gave Ivan’s arm a squeeze and left them, her stride purposeful.
Kincaid looked round for Gemma, saw that she had risen, but was still hemmed in by her gentlemen admirers. He caught her questioning glance and shrugged. It seemed to him that Booth was studying the garden with undue attention. Was there foxglove in the borders? He couldn’t recall seeing it, but then his memory of his quick tour of the garden before breakfast that morning seemed a century ago. “Surely someone would know if Nell had a heart condition,” he said. Was he hoping to excuse her, find a logical reason why she had plowed into his car? But if Nell had been poisoned, she had still been alive when they crashed. Nothing made sense. He didn’t seem to be able to focus on anything more than a few seconds.
Kincaid saw Addie speak to Melody, then Melody started across the lawn towards them, but as he watched, his vision seemed to darken round the edges.
“Are you quite all right, Duncan?” asked Ivan, his voice sounding very far away.
“I think,” Kincaid managed, “I might need a bit of a lie-down.”
With her mother’s whispered instructions in her ear, Melody pasted on a smile and went to meet the newcomer.
“So sorry to disturb the party,” Booth said as he shook her hand. He was quite good-looking, Melody decided, and his clasp was warm and dry.
“If you could take DI Booth into the sitting room,” her father said, “and then fetch Vivian?” He turned to Booth. “Let us at least get you a coffee.”
This was framed as a statement rather than a question, and Melody saw Booth hesitate before he said, “Thanks. That’s kind of you, sir.” She could tell that he felt awkward, but she also saw that he was taking everything in with alert curiosity. She wouldn’t want to have secrets from this man.
“Good. Let us know if you need anything else.” Ivan gave Booth’s hand a hearty shake, and a moment later was chatting with guests who were all now rising from their tables. Kincaid excused himself as well, making a rather unsteady beeline for Gemma. Melody thought he’d looked a bit green about the gills.
Left alone with Booth, she led the way through the house to the blue sitting room. “You’re from Gloucester HQ, then?” she asked.
“Yes. Your father paid us a visit this morning.”
“Ah. I see.” Melody did, indeed.
“Lovely house,” commented Booth. “Very comfortable. Not what I expected.”
“My parents seldom do the expected,” Melody said.
Rather than taking the offered seat, Booth stood gazing out the sitting room window at the milling crowd in the garden.
“How do you take your coffee, Mr. Booth?” Melody asked from the door.
Booth turned, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth quirk in a smile. “Black, thank you.”
She left him and bumped straight into Doug Cullen in the hall. “Who’s the cop?” whispered Doug, catching her by the shoulders. “What’s going on?”
“Gloucester CID. He wants to talk to Viv.”
“About O’Reilly? I want in on that.”
“Shh,” Melody admonished, finger to her lips. “Then go keep him company while I fetch Viv. Otherwise, I think he’ll have unearthed all of our family secrets.”
When she returned with Viv, and carrying Booth’s cup of coffee, she found Doug and Booth comfortably ensconced on the sofas, chatting about, of all things, rowing.
Booth stood to greet Viv, who looked as if her legs might give way at any moment.
“Well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” said Melody, giving Doug the eye when Viv had taken a seat.
“No, please. I’d like you to stay, Melody. You, too,” Viv added with a glance at Doug. “If that’s all right with Inspector Booth.”
Melody was surprised. She didn’t really know Viv Holland all that well. When she came to the country for weekends or holidays, her parents often took her to dinner at the pub. Viv would come out from the kitchen to speak to them, but their conversations had revolved round the food, and the usual village topic, the weather. She wasn’t even sure if Viv knew what she did for a living.
“Certainly.” Booth nodded at Melody and Doug, then turned to Viv. “Miss Holland— It is ‘miss,’ isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Viv answered, sounding hoarse. Melody sat beside her on the sofa
.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I realize you’ve had a busy day.”
Viv sat forward, fingers kneading at the hem of her white chef’s jacket. “I have to clear up. And then get ready for service at the pub—Saturday is our busiest night.”
“I do have to ask you some questions.” Booth sounded almost gentle, which put Melody on alert. Booth was not just going through the motions, then. “I understand you knew Fergus O’Reilly.”
“Yes. I worked for him. At his restaurant in Chelsea.”
“O’Reilly’s?”
“Yes. Did you know it?”
Booth gave her a disarming smile. “Oh, yes. I ate there, once. I had the duck breast with farro risotto and duck confit. I think it was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”
Viv’s look of surprise would have been comical under other circumstances.
“O’Reilly was ahead of his time with the farro, don’t you think?” Booth added. When Viv nodded, he went on. “You were there, then? It would have been”—Booth closed his eyes for a moment, as if counting to himself—“twelve years ago.”
“Yes, I—I think I was. I worked there for a couple of years. But it was a long time ago.”
“But you’d had recent contact with Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Before yesterday, I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years, not since I left the restaurant. I told the officers that this morning. He just showed up yesterday morning, in the yard of the pub.”
“Did he say why he was there?”
“He said he’d heard about the luncheon. Lady Addie did a lot of promotion.”
“But he wasn’t a guest?” asked Booth.
“No. The tickets were sold out.”
Booth raised an eyebrow. “He came all the way from London for a luncheon he couldn’t attend?”
Viv shrugged. “I think he was hoping I could get him a ticket. But it was limited seating. There was no way I could add someone, even if I’d wanted to.”
“I’m not following this,” broke in Melody, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t her job to ask questions. “Why would Fergus O’Reilly want to come to my mother’s luncheon? Unless . . .” Melody didn’t like where the thought was taking her. “Unless he wanted something from my parents?”
“Oh, no.” Viv sounded shocked. “It wasn’t your parents he wanted something from. It was me.” When they all looked at her expectantly, she sighed. “He had some crazy idea. Fergus always had mad ideas. He said there were some mysterious London backers who were offering him a great deal on a new restaurant. He wanted me to come back to London and run the kitchen.” She must have read disbelief in their faces because she went on, “It’s not unusual. Chefs are always recruiting other chefs for projects, especially someone they’ve cooked with before.”
“What did you tell him?” Melody asked.
“No, of course,” Viv said sharply. “My life and my business are here. But I wish I’d been . . . kinder about it. If I’d known . . .” She shook her head. “Look. I’m very sorry that Fergus is dead. But I don’t understand why you’re asking me these things.”
Booth gave Melody a quelling glance. “Was Mr. O’Reilly on any heart medication?” he asked Viv.
“What? No. At least not as far as I know.”
“Can you tell us where he was staying?”
“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me.”
“Do you know if he had a car in the village?”
“If he did, I didn’t see it in the pub car park. But Fergus didn’t like driving. He never kept a car in London.”
“Do you have any idea where Mr. O’Reilly was living?”
“Absolutely none. I told your officers this morning. But . . . he always left his wallet in his coat—I told them that, too—and as far as I know his coat is still at the pub.”
Booth took a moment to make a note on his phone. From his expression, Melody thought she would not want to be the officer who had failed to follow up on the coat.
Viv had half risen when Booth looked up and said, “What about Nell Greene? What was her connection to Mr. O’Reilly?”
“I have no idea. I told you, I hadn’t seen him in years. And I honestly didn’t know Nell well at all. Look, I really must—”
“I’m afraid whatever it is will have to wait a bit longer.” Booth set his empty cup on the coffee table and stood. “Before we go any further, I need you to make a formal identification.”
“But I don’t want— And I’ve got to load food in my van—”
“In that case, it might be easiest if you come with me.”
Sitting in the leather passenger seat of DI Booth’s Volvo, Viv felt like she’d been hijacked. She’d protested, but Melody had whispered in her ear, “Best get it over with. It won’t get easier.” Then more loudly, Melody had added, “Don’t worry, we’ll load the van and drive it down to the pub. And we’ll get Grace home.”
Viv had insisted on talking to Grace first. She’d found her in the scullery with Kit, who hadn’t even needed a word to realize that Viv wanted a moment alone with her daughter. When Kit had gone out, Viv had leaned down, eye level with Grace, and said, “Sweetie, the man who was here yesterday—”
“You mean Fergus.” Grace glared at her.
“Yes, Fergus. I’m afraid the police think he was in the car crash last night as well as Miss Nell. I have to go to the . . . hospital, to—to be certain it’s him.”
“But he’s going to be okay,” Grace said, suddenly looking small and frightened and much younger than her eleven years.
“No, sweetie.” Viv took a breath. “He’s not going to be okay. He died, too.”
Grace stared at her, then shook her head, her hair flying. “No. He can’t be. I don’t believe you.” When Viv reached for her, she backed up as if she’d been slapped. “I hate you,” Grace spat at her. “You’re just saying that to be mean.” Then she ran out the terrace door after Kit.
Now, sitting huddled in her dirty chef’s jacket in Booth’s car, Viv felt ill with dread. What if what happened was somehow her fault? Two people who had been in her restaurant last night were dead. She didn’t remember Nell ever drinking much, and she didn’t think Fergus had been drinking when he came into the kitchen last night. In any case, Jack wouldn’t have overserved them, although Nell had lived close enough to walk home. And Fergus, where the hell had Fergus come from?
Had there been anything different about him? She glanced at Booth. “Why did you ask if Fergus was taking heart medication?”
Booth seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. “The pathologist found digitalis in his system.”
“Digitalis? You mean like foxglove?”
“Well, it could be. A form of digitalis is used in heart medication, as well as other things.”
“But—” Viv frowned, thinking. Could Fergus have been ill? Was that what had prompted his sudden appearance?
“What are you thinking?” asked Booth.
“Well, it’s just, chefs lead pretty hard lives. And Fergus—Fergus liked to party as hard as he worked.”
“You mean he did coke?”
Viv wished she hadn’t said anything, but in for a penny . . . “I just wondered if his lifestyle might have had long-term repercussions.”
“You said he showed up yesterday morning and made you this proposition. Then what?”
“I told him I wasn’t interested. He left.”
“Did he tell you he was coming back for dinner?”
“No. He just appeared again late in the afternoon, in the yard, but I didn’t really speak to him then. I was getting ready for service.”
“But you knew he was in the restaurant later in the evening?”
“Only because Jack—my bartender—told me. And Jack had no idea who he was, just that he was making a nuisance of himself, ordering things and sending them back.”
“But you didn’t talk to him yourself?”
Viv hesitated again, but there was nothing for it. She wasn’t going to tell an outright lie,
no matter how bad the truth made her look. “He came into the kitchen. You can’t just walk into another chef’s kitchen and start throwing your weight around. But that was Fergus for you. Boundaries were never his strong suit.”
Glancing at her, Booth said, “I take it you two didn’t get on.” He turned his attention back to the road, his hands relaxed on the wheel.
Viv blinked furiously against a sudden and unexpected wash of tears. “Oh, we did. Once.”
December 2006
They were in the weeds, had been since the start of service when they’d had two unexpectedly large parties order at the same time.
It had taken Viv six months to work her way on to the fryer station on the hot line at O’Reilly’s. She’d almost quit half a dozen times, but the stubborn streak that had got her through her first few kitchens kept her going. It was the first time she’d ever worked in a kitchen where not even the pastry chef was female. Sometimes she thought she’d accidentally walked into the eighties—or maybe the sixties.
She learned never to go in the walk-in fridge alone, and especially not with John, the pastry chef. When he’d cornered her at the stove one day, she’d accidentally tipped a pot of boiling water on the tips of his clogs. But John was a bit of a friendly puppy—he was out of line but there was no malice in it. Guy, the sous-chef, was another story. He gave her the creeps even when he looked at her. She avoided him as much as possible but it was hard when he was on sauté and she was next to him on the fryer. The kitchen was cramped, but even so they were understaffed for the amount of covers they were doing every night. The restaurant was getting good press, and the food was consistently improving, thanks in no small part to her, she thought. Even when Fergus had moved her on to the hot line when one of the cooks had quit, she’d kept on with the daytime prep. It allowed her to control the quality of the food, and Fergus had turned more and more of the ordering over to her.
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