A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  A couple came in from the car park with their dogs, two handsome Belgian shepherds, and they all had to step back to let them pass. Bea gave them a friendly greeting, then turned back to Booth. “If you’re going to speak to the staff, it will have to be soon. I can cover the bar for Jack for a few minutes, but everyone’s going to be needed in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll just step into the kitchen then,” said Booth with a smile. “And then I’ll have a word with Jack afterwards. No need to disrupt your routine more than necessary.”

  “But you can’t go into the kitchen.” Bea looked as if he’d just suggested sacrilege. “They’re working and there’s no room—”

  “I’ve been in a kitchen or two. I’m sure Chef Viv can put up with me for a couple of minutes.” Booth’s tone was firm. Gemma moved out of his way as he stepped round the bar and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  This left Gemma standing a little awkwardly in the hallway. She was wondering where Doug and Melody had got to when Bea said, close enough to make her jump, “Can I help you with something? It’s Gemma, isn’t it? You’re staying with the Talbots?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was just waiting for Melody and my hus—”

  “Thanks for all your help this morning. I didn’t have a chance to say earlier. I had to rush back to deal with the lunch service here.” Taking off her rimless glasses, Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. “It was a beastly day.” Her voice wavered at the end, and when she looked up at Gemma, her eyes were glistening.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gemma hastened to say. “I’m sure this has all been a dreadful shock. We were pretty shaken up, too.”

  Realization flooded Bea’s face. “Oh, God. I’m an idiot. It was your husband in the other car, wasn’t it? Viv told me. I’m so sorry. Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. Just a bit banged up. We were very lucky.” Just talking about it made Gemma feel a little weak-kneed, but Bea looked so distressed that she added, “You can see for yourself. He’s meeting me here in just a bit.”

  Before Bea could respond, a plump woman in a server’s apron appeared from the other dining area. “Bea,” she called, “we’ve got an eight-top booked for six o’clock. Could you help me shift the tables and set up?”

  “Don’t mind me,” Gemma said to Bea. “I’ll just have a seat in the bar.” She could have gone outside to look for the others—she had Melody’s keys, after all—but the bartender was still giving her darting little glances.

  “Have something on the house, do,” Bea insisted, looking harried again as she hurried off to help.

  Smiling at the couple with the dogs, who had been served their drinks and had settled at a table with their newspapers, the dogs under their feet, Gemma made her way to the bar.

  “What will it be, then?” asked the bartender, who had obviously been listening to her conversation.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Do you fancy gin?”

  “Oh, yes. I do.” Gemma glanced at her watch. It had gone five, and after the day she’d had, she certainly thought she could justify a little tipple. “A G and T?”

  “If I could suggest . . .” He pulled a smart-looking black bottle from the shelf behind the bar. “Our local Cotswolds Dry Gin, on ice with a twist of grapefruit.”

  “Grapefruit? Really?”

  “Trust me on this one.” If not for the local accent, he might have been an East End bouncer, but a smile transformed his broad face.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll give it a try.”

  She watched as he put a few ice cubes in a heavy glass, then expertly curled a strip of grapefruit rind from one of the fruits in a bowl on the bar top. “This must be a favorite,” she commented, nodding at the supply of grapefruit nestled in the bowl along with the usual lemons and limes.

  He poured a generous measure from the black bottle and handed it to her with a cocktail napkin. “See for yourself.”

  Gemma wasn’t in the habit of drinking gin neat, so she sniffed, then took a tentative sip. The flavors exploded in her mouth—coriander and juniper and lavender and lime and . . . grapefruit. “Oh, wow,” she said, when her eyes stopped watering. “That is amazing. I’m converted.” She held out a hand. “I’m Gemma, by the way.”

  “Jack.” His grip was quick and firm and her hand felt delicate in his grasp. Studying him, Gemma wondered if he might be ex-military. “You’re a cop,” he said, as if he’d been reading her signals, too.

  “Detective in the Met,” she agreed. “My husband, too.”

  “Ah.” Jack polished a glass. “That I didn’t know.”

  “I work with Melody Talbot. She invited us for the weekend.” Gemma took another appreciative sip of the gin.

  “Good lass, Melody. But not the best weekend for your husband.” Jack nodded towards Bea’s office. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I take it you weren’t in the car with him last night, then.”

  “No. I came down with Melody and our little daughter earlier in the afternoon.”

  “Well, I’m glad for that. And glad your husband is all right. It’s just”—the wineglass gleamed in Jack’s hand but he gave the rim another rub—“it’s just that I wondered—I liked Nell, you see. She was a nice woman. Wouldn’t have hurt a hair on anyone’s head. It’s bad enough that she’s dead, but I don’t like thinking she was responsible for such a thing.”

  Gemma didn’t want to steal a march on DI Booth, but her pulse quickened as she realized Jack might have been one of the last people to have seen the crash victims alive. “I understand she was here last night?”

  Jack nodded. “She had dinner in the bar. She didn’t like to eat in the dining room on her own, said she felt more comfortable in here,” he added, with what sounded like proprietary pride.

  “Did you notice anything unusual about her last night?”

  His broad forehead creased. “I’ve been over and over it since we heard the news. She was quiet, maybe not as chatty as usual, and she didn’t eat much. She stayed for a good long while, too, after she’d finished her chicken pie and her coffee. I wondered that she didn’t bring Bella—that’s her dog—but she might have come straight to the pub from somewhere other than home.”

  Gemma was now casting anxious glances towards the kitchen, where she could pick out the occasional rumble of Booth’s voice among the others. Smells were beginning to percolate into the bar as well—roasting meat and frying potatoes, she thought. Her stomach rumbled, in spite of her earlier protestations about the ice cream.

  Crossing her fingers for a few more uninterrupted minutes, she said, “And did you see her speaking with Mr. O’Reilly?”

  “Him.” Jack set the wineglass on the bar with such a smack that the couple with the shepherds looked up at him curiously and the dogs raised their heads. Lowering his voice, he said, “That one, showing up here, with his silly hat and coat. Ordering Viv’s food and sending it back to the kitchen with his little comments. ‘Tell Chef the pastry is quite soggy,’ and that on her steak and Hook Norton Pie. Everyone knows Viv makes the best pastry in the county. Or, ‘Tell Chef the pork is overdone,’ on the Todenham Manor cutlet.”

  “Was he friendly with Nell—Mrs. Greene?”

  “I never saw him speak to her.”

  “But they left together?”

  “No.” Jack pulled another wineglass from the overhead rack. Nodding at Gemma’s drink, he said, “Get you another?”

  “Oh, gosh, no thank you.” Gemma hadn’t realized she’d finished it. She felt a bit light-headed. She wondered why Jack was suddenly less forthcoming. There was no sign of Booth, and Bea still seemed to be busy in the other dining room. “I understand he left his coat.”

  “That he did. Walked out on his check, too.” Jack flushed. “That sounds petty of me, considering, but at the time . . .”

  “I understand,” Gemma assured him. “Did he seem in a hurry?”

  Jack glanced round, then seemed to come to a decision. Dropping his voice almost
to a whisper, he said, “More like royally pissed off. There was . . . a bit of a row. In the kitchen.”

  “He was in the kitchen?”

  “Got up from his table, came round the bar, and blew right past me.”

  Gemma was surprised. She thought Jack could have stopped a small tank.

  As if he’d sensed her criticism, Jack shrugged, looking down. “He’d been hanging round all day. He was in the courtyard with Chef when I got to work, so last night I figured he had her permission. But next thing I know there’s a crash and he comes storming out again and goes straight out the door.”

  “You didn’t go after him?”

  “He’d left his things. I thought he’d just gone out for a smoke or something. And I went in the kitchen to make sure everything was okay. Viv had dropped a pan of chips. A right mess, it was.”

  “What about Mrs. Greene?”

  “She stayed for a while longer, just drinking coffee. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes. It crossed my mind to ask if she was all right, but with everything else . . .” He looked at Gemma, his hands finally still. “If only I’d spoken to her, asked her if she was okay . . . I had no idea I’d never see her again. I feel I’m somehow to blame.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The arrival of new customers took Jack’s attention. Gemma gave him a wave of thanks and headed for the exit. It was getting on towards dinnertime and the place was filling up. Surely Melody and Doug had finished helping with the unloading of Viv’s van. And where were Duncan and the kids?

  When she stepped outside, she saw that dark clouds had begun to build up again, bringing an early twilight. The breeze had died and the perfume from the rambling roses that grew on the side of the kitchen extension hung heavy in the air. She was about to round the corner into the courtyard when she heard voices. Peering past the roses, she saw Viv, standing by the kitchen steps, and with her the man who’d sat glowering next to Kincaid all through the luncheon. Something in their body language made her stop, half shielded by the twining rose canes.

  “You have to tell me what’s wrong, Viv,” the man said, sounding not angry but distressed. “Did I do something to upset you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I promise it’s nothing to do with you. I’m sorry if you thought that. It’s been a horrible day.” She stepped into his arms and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. Then, with a glance towards the kitchen, she stepped back. “I thought I’d left it all behind, my old life. I should have known I couldn’t—” She shook her head.

  “Addie said you knew the fellow who was in the car with Nell.”

  “I worked for him, years ago. But—it was . . . complicated. I’ll tell you, but not now. And not here.” Viv turned away, but the man reached out and caught her arm.

  “Viv, did you still have feelings for him?”

  “Feelings?” Viv pulled away and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Yes. I hated his guts.”

  When Kincaid and the rather sticky children followed the entrance sign and rounded the end of the pub, he saw Gemma apparently sniffing the pink roses that adorned the side of the building. She jumped guiltily and came towards them with a bright smile. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

  “You know you’re allowed to smell the roses, love,” he teased.

  She gave him an arch look and bent down to Charlotte, who was holding out an enormous scarlet leaf.

  “We found this for you, Mummy.”

  “We didn’t pick it,” Toby offered. “It was on the ground.”

  “That’s even nicer than ice cream,” Gemma told them.

  “I had strawberry,” said Charlotte. “I tried to bring you some but it melted.” She held out the splotchy front of her T-shirt as evidence.

  They had all had ice creams, and perused the gift shop at the Old Mill to the sounds of 1940s jazz. Kincaid had bought a book on local walks. Afterwards, they’d examined the mill wheel, then meandered along the Eye, looking for trout in the clear water and picking up leaves dropped by the creeper growing on the walls of the inn.

  The children had spotted the play area in the garden behind the pub. “Can we go see, Mummy?” Charlotte tugged at Gemma’s hand.

  “Go on, then. We’ll be right behind you,” Gemma said, waving them off. Kit sauntered behind the younger two, looking round curiously.

  “Is Viv back?” Kincaid asked when the children were out of earshot. “Was it a positive ID?”

  Gemma nodded. “And Booth’s still here."

  As they entered the courtyard, Kincaid saw Melody and Doug sitting at a picnic table in the garden. Doug had a pint and Melody had what looked like a mug of tea. They were talking to Mark Cain, who had sat next to Kincaid at the luncheon. Cain looked considerably less aggravated than earlier in the day, and Kincaid wondered what had improved his mood.

  “Hello, again,” Cain said, shaking Kincaid’s hand, then turning to Gemma.

  “Hello. I’m Gemma James, Duncan’s wife.” Gemma gave Cain a smile, but Kincaid recognized the curiosity in her glance.

  “Mark Cain. I’ve come to see if Grace would like to take Bella for a walk. Bella’s Nell’s dog,” he added. “I’m looking after her.”

  “I think Lady Addie said she was one of your puppies?”

  “Yes. And I was helping Nell with some obedience training.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, that Nell’s gone.”

  “I understand you were her neighbor?”

  “Yes. Nell’s cottage is up King’s Well Lane—the turning is opposite the mill. My farm is the next place beyond it.” Cain frowned. “Nell would have driven right past me last night.”

  Kincaid could visualize the lane—he’d gone that way with Ivan that morning. And when he’d glanced at the walking guide he’d bought in the mill shop, he’d seen that the lane was part of a designated-walks loop. He thought he remembered seeing a farm gate, but there had been nothing beyond that other than the junction that led to the main road. Where had Nell Greene been going?

  Melody and Doug had finished their drinks and risen to join them. “I’ve given Mark’s key to the cottage to DI Booth,” said Melody. “And we’d better get organized to go back to the house. Duncan, I thought you and Gemma and Charlotte could ride with me, and Doug could walk up with the boys.”

  Kincaid started to say he didn’t need a ride, then remembered the grade of the hill and wondered if he felt quite up to the climb.

  “She’s coddling you,” said Gemma with a smile. “And you’d better not think of arguing.”

  They all looked up as DI Booth came out of the kitchen entrance, followed by Viv Holland. Booth carried a man’s camel hair overcoat.

  “Is that O’Reilly’s?” Melody asked.

  “Yes, but not much help, I’m afraid. There’s nothing with a London address or anything to indicate where he was staying in the area.” Booth turned to Viv. “Do you have any suggestions, Miss Holland?”

  “There are only two places here in the village, the inn and the manor house. Knowing Fergus, I’d try the manor first. It’s a bit more his style.” Her smile was pinched. “You’ll find it just the other side of the church.” To Melody, Doug, and Gemma, she added, “Thank you all so much for your help. I don’t know how I’d have managed otherwise. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s someone else I need to thank.” She walked across the garden to the play area, where Kit was helping Charlotte on the slide.

  Kincaid noticed that she had not acknowledged Mark Cain.

  “You’ll be checking on Nell Greene’s cottage as well as the hotels?” he asked Booth. “I wondered if I might tag along.”

  “Of course,” Booth said. “I’ll run you up to Beck House afterwards.”

  Leaving the pub, Kincaid and Booth crossed the road at the main roundabout and took the paved path that meandered alongside the Eye, the river here wider and deeper than it had been beside the mill. Across the road, a wall of golden Cotswold brick with ironwork insets bordered the tarmac, partially conce
aling the manor house.

  “You think there’s something in these deaths, then?” Kincaid asked Booth.

  “I certainly think the whole business is odd. But I don’t have enough yet to justify authorizing overtime on a Saturday night.” Booth shot Kincaid an amused glance. “Hence my appreciation of another set of eyes and ears.”

  “Happy to oblige.”

  Booth walked on another few yards before he added, “Did you have a particular reason for wanting to see the woman’s cottage?”

  “Nell.” Kincaid spoke with more force than necessary, then took a breath. “Mrs. Greene. Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that no one’s accounts of her—or my impression—seem to match up with what happened last night.”

  “None of the staff I just interviewed at the pub saw any interaction between Mrs. Greene and Fergus O’Reilly. According to the bartender, O’Reilly left about twenty minutes before Mrs. Greene.”

  They’d reached the ornate pineapple-topped gates flanking the manor house drive. Kincaid looked back towards the pub, just visible in the fading light. “What time was this?”

  “Fully dark, according to the bartender. Half seven, he guessed.”

  So only a short time before Nell had run into him on the A429. How long had the drive from the village to the intersection taken Ivan that morning? Ten minutes? So, however O’Reilly had ended up in Nell’s car, it had to have happened very shortly after she left the pub. “Were they even sitting near each other?” he asked.

  “Not according to the barman. If I had the resources, I’d track down the other customers in the bar.”

  As they crossed the road and entered the manor drive, Kincaid gazed across a broad sweep of green lawn to the house itself. Lights had begun to wink on in all three stories. Above the roofline, dark clouds were massing, and the golden facade of the house seemed to glow against the looming backdrop. This was the place Kincaid had glimpsed when Tracey Woodman had driven him to the Talbots’, the place he had thought was Beck House.