A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  “Mum!” Melody cut her off, shocked. “Don’t be silly. That’s not like you at all. I might as well hold myself responsible because I invited them.”

  “I suppose you’re right, darling.” Addie sighed. “I just feel a bit like the thing that started the dominoes falling.”

  “You have certainly never been described by anyone as a thing,” Melody said, laughing, and earned a rueful smile in return. “Come on, then—”

  The doorbell rang, startling them both.

  “Who the hell?” grumbled Melody. Neither Gemma nor Duncan had keys, but the front door had been purposely left off the latch for them. Perhaps Roz had forgotten. “I’ll get it,” she said, starting for the hall, but Addie followed her nevertheless.

  “I’m so sorry,” Melody said as she opened the door. “Did you get locked—”

  The words dried up. Neither Gemma nor Duncan stood on the porch. Gaping, she looked into Andy Monahan’s very blue eyes.

  As Gemma and Kincaid walked back into the small dining room, she could tell that the discussion among the chefs was getting more heated. Kincaid went to speak to Booth, while Gemma saw that Kit had apparently fetched a bowl of water for Bella from the kitchen, and now knelt beside the dog as she drank, listening intently to the conversation.

  “We can’t,” Viv was saying. “We just can’t. It’s disrespectful. What would people think?”

  “What are people going to think when they start turning up at noon for the Sunday lunches they’ve booked, and they haven’t even had a phone call telling them their reservation is canceled?” argued Ibby.

  “That doesn’t matter.” Viv sounded near to tears again.

  “It does, actually,” Angelica put in, quietly. “The locals will have to be told about Jack, whether it’s today or tomorrow. But we have tourists and people from outside that are only going to know that their day is ruined. And what are we going to do, otherwise? Sit in the kitchen while the food spoils? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be working.”

  Gemma jumped as Bea spoke from behind her shoulder. “Angelica’s right. We’ve got people already pulling into the car park. We can’t just turn them away,” Bea continued as she joined the group. “Sarah and the rest of the servers are here. Sarah is manning the car park until we can get ourselves sorted out in here. Viv?”

  “But we can’t just—” Viv shook her head. “What about Grace?”

  “I’ve got her settled on the sofa with a duvet and a video. I’ll check on her in a few minutes.”

  Bea, Gemma decided, was the sort of person who met a crisis with action.

  “But what about the bar?” said Viv. “We can’t pull anyone out of the dining rooms—”

  “I can mind the bar,” put in Ibby. “Angie’s right. We can’t just sit here all day. We’d go spare. But you’ll be shorthanded in the kitchen.”

  Kit had stood up. “I can help.”

  “Would you?” Viv gave him a grateful look, then glanced at Gemma. “If it’s all right with your mum, we might be able to manage with an extra hand.”

  “Of course, that’s fine, if Kit wants to help. And I’m glad to do whatever I can, as well.”

  “But you’ll have to take Bella if I help out,” he said. “I can’t have her in the kitchen. You will watch out for her, won’t you?” he added, with a return of the worried frown he’d worn earlier.

  “Of course I will,” Gemma assured him, but before she could ask what was bothering him, the chefs, having made a decision, whisked him off to the kitchen, and Gemma was left, quite literally, holding the dog.

  When Bella whined after Kit, Gemma reassured her, then took her over to Kincaid and Booth. “They’re going to open,” she told them. “And we need to find a place to talk.”

  Roz escaped into the forecourt at Beck House and walked fast up the drive until she reached the road. There, she stopped and drew a shaky breath.

  She’d been about to walk into the kitchen when she’d heard Melody mention Joe’s name. Hardly daring to breathe, she’d listened until Addie had called out for her, then waited a moment to enter, a smile pasted on her face. Dear God, she’d never dreamed that Joe would be stupid enough to ask questions about Fergus of Melody, of all people. What else had he told her? She considered going back to confront him now, but someone might see her and she didn’t want to chat.

  Hunching her shoulders, she started up the road towards her cottage. The sound of a car coming up the lane made her look back, but all she saw was the flash of tail lamps as a car turned into the Beck House drive. Roz shrugged and continued up the hill. Not her problem, whomever it was.

  As she reached the high point of the village, a flock of black birds rose from the churchyard, wheeled in the air above her, then settled on the power wires, their voices raucous and mocking. They might have been laughing at her.

  As well they might. She meant to go home and erase any trace that Fergus O’Reilly had ever entered her life.

  And then she was going to deal with Joe.

  “Andy, what are you doing here?” Melody managed to gasp when her tongue had unlocked itself.

  “Surprised to see me, then?” He didn’t smile.

  “How did you—”

  “Know where to find you? I rang Doug. I was worried about you. Apparently, I needn’t have been.”

  “Doug? But why did he—” A movement made Melody realize that her mother was still standing right behind her. Stepping back, she said, “Oh, Mum. This is Andy. Andy, this is my mother, Addie Talbot.”

  Andy held out a hand to Addie. “Andy Monahan. Melody’s friend.” There was a definite emphasis on the friend. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  Addie shook his hand warmly, then studied him with a slightly puzzled expression. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh.” Her face cleared. “I’ve seen you on the television—was it Breakfast? You and your partner, the adorable girl who sings and plays the bass. Poppy.”

  “Yes. Poppy Jones.”

  “You’re the guitarist. I think the two of you are so talented.”

  Melody glanced at her mother in shock. What was she doing, gushing like a smitten teenager? Not that Andy looked the rock star today. His usually tousled blond hair was neatly combed. He wore a quite smart navy blazer over a blue button-down shirt, and jeans with his bespoke brown leather boots—those, one of his few concessions to his recent celebrity.

  “Remember, darling?” Addie turned to Melody. “I told you how much I liked that song?” She hummed a bit of Andy and Poppy’s hit from last summer—perfectly in key. Melody could have sunk through the earth. “Why didn’t you say you two were friends?”

  “I— It just never came up—”

  “Well, in any case, do come in,” Addie said before Melody could dig herself in any deeper. “We were just about to have lunch. You must join us, Andy.”

  “I’m very sorry, Lady Adelaide, but I can’t stay. I’ve just come to have a word with Melody. It won’t take long.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gemma, Bella, Kincaid, and Booth repaired to the farthest table in the garden. It had grown so warm that it felt more like balmy summer than late September. Bees zoomed among the splash of red roses still blooming on the nearby stone wall and visited the small pot of lavender on their table, coming perilously close to Gemma’s egg mayo and watercress sandwich.

  The pub car park was now full, and most of the other tables in the garden were occupied with Sunday lunch diners making the most of the weather. Viv had insisted that they take something to eat from the kitchen, and Gemma had had to admit that her bite of breakfast had long since worn off. She’d promised Viv that she’d help out in the pub wherever needed—the least she could do was bus tables—but not until she’d had a chance to make certain that she, Kincaid, and Booth were all up to speed. And not until they’d finished their lunches. Booth had ordered the ploughman’s, Kincaid the roast chicken sandwich, but she noticed he didn’t manage to eat more than a few bites.

 
; When she and Booth, at least, were mopping up crumbs, she said, “I’ve been thinking, trying to work out what might have happened here on Friday night. Fergus O’Reilly apparently walked out of the bar without his coat or mobile. We assume he’d just stepped out and meant to come back, right? But why did he go outside? He didn’t smoke, did he?”

  “Nothing indicates that he did,” agreed Booth. “Maybe it was too warm in the bar and he just needed some air.”

  “Or maybe he needed to cool off for another reason—the argument in the kitchen,” said Gemma. “Jack Doyle told me that O’Reilly was slagging off Viv’s food the entire evening. Then he barged into the kitchen and he and Viv had a shouting match. Did anyone you interviewed say exactly what it was about?”

  Booth gazed into the distance, then said, “The two cooks said that she told him to get out of her kitchen, that he had no right to be there. Viv Holland just agreed with them.”

  “So.” Shooing a wasp away from her glass, Gemma took a cautious sip of her lemonade before going on. “If O’Reilly was sniping at her food and sending it back, I’d guess he was already angry with her. Why? Because she turned down the job he offered her? That seems a pretty extreme reaction.”

  “Famous chef, offering her a plum job, and she doesn’t want it,” mused Booth. “Maybe his ego was wounded. He was never exactly a self-effacing bloke.”

  “Formerly famous chef,” put in Kincaid. “According to what Doug Cullen found this morning.” He repeated what they had learned from Doug’s research.

  “Well, if he wasn’t doing well, it must have really smarted to be turned down.” Booth ate his last potato crisp and eyed Kincaid’s plate.

  “Maybe.” Gemma mulled this over. “But you know what bothers me about this? The mobile. Who leaves their phone behind these days when they step outside for a breath of air?”

  “Who leaves their mobile in their coat pocket to begin with?” countered Booth. “Instead of keeping it in hand or on the table?”

  “True. Although the reception is iffy here. But, I’ve been thinking. What if Fergus left his coat and his mobile not because he was angry, but because he wasn’t feeling well? We know he must have died very shortly after he left the pub.” She took out her own mobile, checked the bars, and pulled up a Wikipedia page. Scanning the page, she said, “Listen to this. Symptoms of digitalis poisoning include vomiting, loss of appetite—that could be why Fergus kept sending Viv’s food back—blurred vision, and confusion. We’ve never come up with any explanation for what Fergus O’Reilly was doing in Nell Greene’s car, or any connection between them.

  “But what if he simply felt very ill and was trying to get back to his hotel? When Nell leaves the pub, say, half an hour later, she finds him wandering in the village, obviously ill. Nell was a hospital administrator. She certainly had enough experience to know he needed medical attention urgently.”

  Slowly, Booth nodded. “That intersection, where she crashed into you, Duncan, would have been the quickest route to the hospital in Cheltenham.”

  “Oh my God.” Gemma felt suddenly queasy as the idea came to her. “Everyone says how sensible Nell was. We see car crashes caused by distracted driving every day—people fussing with their Happy Meals or sending texts—but Nell was responsible, and careful. But—what if she looked over at her ill passenger and realized that O’Reilly had died?”

  “Christ,” Kincaid said, his voice strangled. “She said— She tried to tell me something, but it didn’t make any sense to me then. She seemed so distressed, and not for herself. She said, ‘Tell them he—’ and that was all she managed.”

  Looking at Kincaid, Gemma saw to her dismay that his eyes had filled with tears. “You didn’t tell me you spoke to her.”

  “I— It was only a few seconds. Waiting for help. And then she was—gone.” Kincaid stood up, almost tipping over his wooden chair. “Excuse me, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, he left them, walking quickly across the courtyard and disappearing through the arch into the car park.

  “He’s a bit upset, I think,” Booth said to Gemma.

  She took in his lack of surprise. “You knew, didn’t you? That he spoke to Nell.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to tell strangers when something really gets to you.” Booth leaned forward, keeping eye contact with her. “You know. You know how it is on the job.”

  After a moment, Gemma made an effort to relax her shoulders and let her breath out in a sigh. “Yes. You’re right. But still—”

  “Head injuries can do funny things as well. Emotionally, I mean. I got seriously smacked once, playing rugby for the police team. I cried for weeks over anything, even telly adverts. You can imagine how well that went over on the job. I’d recommend that you make sure Duncan gets that head injury checked out.”

  Gemma realized then what had been nagging at the edge of her awareness—how odd it had seemed that Kincaid hadn’t tried to run Booth’s investigation, whether it was officially his case or not. So accustomed was he to being in charge that it came as naturally to him as breathing, and ordinarily he’d have been organizing and suggesting, politely, of course. But he wasn’t. She said, “I’ve decided I’m not going back to London tomorrow. And I’ll make certain he sees someone first thing in the morning.” Looking towards the car park, she added, “Should I go after him?”

  Booth shook his head. “No. I’d give him a few minutes to sort himself out.”

  Gemma shooed a few more wasps while she tried again to order her thoughts. From the kitchen, she heard the rattle of dishes and the hum of voices, but she couldn’t distinguish the speakers. “Have you ruled out the possibility that O’Reilly might have overdosed on his own medication?” she asked Booth.

  “Not entirely, until we can check out his home address. But I think if he’d been taking prescribed tablets, we’d have found them in his hotel room or on his person. Dr. Mason—the pathologist—says the toxic dose is five to ten times the therapeutic dose, but we’re still talking small tablets. The lethal amount would depend on the person’s health and sensitivity.”

  Gemma scanned her phone screen again. “This says onset of symptoms from a lethal dose is thirty minutes to two hours. But it might not have been heart tablets. Apparently, all parts of the plant are highly poisonous, even dried seeds and leaves.”

  Booth met her gaze. “Because of Jack Doyle’s death, we have to seriously consider the possibility that Fergus O’Reilly was deliberately poisoned. And, given the time frame, that it happened in or near the pub.”

  “And that it’s highly likely the digitalis had to have been administered in his food or drink,” added Gemma, not liking this at all. “Which puts the pub staff squarely in the picture.” Looking towards the kitchen again, she shook her head. “I just can’t believe that any of them would have done that.”

  “Well, we don’t know where O’Reilly was before he came to the pub Friday evening, so we can’t rule out the possibility that he ingested it somewhere else. And the plant grows bloody everywhere.”

  Including the garden at Beck House, thought Gemma. She remembered seeing the distinctive leaves in what Addie had told them was the White Border, modeled on Gertrude Jekyll’s white borders. Hybrids of the foxglove seeds Jekyll had developed were available even now from catalogues, Addie had added.

  “Nor do we know where he stayed those nights he didn’t use his hotel room,” Booth went on, still focused on O’Reilly. “Or who he met. Damn the man.”

  “We need to get into his mobile,” said Gemma, then realized that with the plural, she’d just included herself in an official investigation, but Booth merely nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve got forensics working on getting a fingerprint or facial recognition scan from the body, but that will take some time. I also need to liaise with the Met on checking O’Reilly’s London address. But it’s Sunday, and I doubt I can get anyone to return a call before tomorrow morning. And I’m seriously understaffed this weekend on all fronts.”

&n
bsp; “I might be able to help with the London end,” said Gemma, hoping her idea would float. “I have a friend, a DCI at Kensington nick. I could give her a ring, see if she could check the place out. And maybe she’d be willing to track down Fergus O’Reilly’s former partner as well.”

  “Can we talk somewhere away from the house?” Andy said, when Addie had gone in.

  Nodding, Melody walked across the drive and Andy followed her. “How on earth did you get here?” she said, turning to face him.

  “Taxi. From your little town where the train stops. Moreton-under-Puddle, or whatever it’s called.”

  “I’d have fetched you from the sta—”

  “Oh, right, when you got round to answering your texts or your phone calls? I’d have had a long bloody wait.”

  “I was going to ring you. I just—”

  “Doug told me he showed you the stupid paper. I can’t believe you fell for that crap,” Andy said, his voice tight.

  “Did you see it?” Melody shot back, beginning to feel angry, too. “The pair of you looked like ‘love’s young dream.’”

  Andy shook his head in disgust. “And how many hundreds of shots do you think it took that photographer to find one that looked like more than it was? You can’t be so naive. I told you from the very beginning that there was nothing between Poppy and me, and I’ve never given you any reason to doubt it. But you—you just flat-out lied to me, Melody.”

  Her legs suddenly felt boneless. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Andy leaned so close she could feel his breath on her face and punched a finger at her chest. “You said your dad was in the newspaper business.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Although I suppose you could say that, couldn’t you?” he added, dripping sarcasm. “So I look up this house when Doug gives me the directions, and I see it belongs to Sir Ivan and Lady Adelaide freaking Talbot. The Ivan Talbot.” He shook his head. “I’d feel really stupid for not seeing the connection, except why would it have occurred to me that it was more than coincidence, you sharing a last name with the owner of the bloody Chronicle?”