A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  “Feet. Stepped in a puddle.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” Joe knelt beside her and slipped one shoe off. “You’re sopping. The bottoms of your jeans are soaked, too.” He pulled off her other shoe, then fetched a towel from the bookcase by his bed and rubbed her feet briskly. Blotting her shoes, he said, “I’ll put these by the stove, okay? Take your jeans off and we’ll dry them, too.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t look. You can wrap up in the rug.” He turned his back.

  Standing unsteadily, Melody slid her jeans down round her ankles, then wrapped the rug haphazardly round herself before plopping back down in the chair. The tartan wool was scratchy against her bare skin. “All clear,” she said, and giggled.

  Turning, Joe knelt and pulled her jeans free, then rubbed her feet again, this time with his hands. “Christ, you are cold. I always thought you were an ice princess, Melody Talbot.”

  “Not.” She drank some more of the whisky. “I’m not, really. I promise.”

  Joe sat back, looking up at her, and she wanted to tell him to keep doing whatever he’d been doing to her feet. “I have an idea.” Standing, he turned the gas on under the kettle on his little cookstove.

  On the table beside Melody, his mobile buzzed. He ignored it. “Don’t you want to get that?” she asked.

  With a quick step, he swiped the mobile from the table before she could read the caller ID, then switched the power off. “No. There’s no one I want to talk to more than you.”

  Melody felt a clutch of panic as she realized she’d left her mobile in the house. But then she sat back, trying to tuck her feet under the rug and sip her drink at the same time. No one would be calling her, she didn’t want to talk to anyone, and she didn’t even want to think about Andy Monahan. “Are you making me a hot toddy, then?”

  “No. A foot bath.” Joe carried the now-steaming kettle over to his copper tub and poured the boiling water in. Then he moved his own chair to the edge of the tub and said, “Come on, shuffle over, sit here. The tub is cold, so the water will cool fast.”

  Setting her almost empty drink on the table, Melody did as she was told, edging carefully onto the chair and lifting her feet. Joe dipped a finger in the water, then splashed in a bit more from the big jug that stood beside the tub. Swirling the water, he said, “Okay, try it now.”

  Melody eased her feet in, gasping at the tingle. “Ow.”

  “Too hot?”

  “No, no, it’s lovely. It’s just that I can feel my feet now.”

  Joe left her, refilling the kettle and putting it back on the gas. “I’ll keep topping it up for you.” When the water boiled again, he knelt beside the tub and carefully tipped a little more in. “Good?”

  “Heaven.” Melody could feel her damp hair curling into her flushed face. She had a sudden vision of Joe naked in the tub, and that made her turn even pinker.

  Joe grinned up at her. “Melody Talbot, you are an enigma. Not so prim and proper, after all. Tell me,” he added, suddenly serious, “is there a boyfriend?”

  Swallowing hard, Melody said, “No. No, not anymore. But I, um, I think I need to get out now. I should go.” She stood, clutching the rug at her waist, then wobbled as she attempted to step out of the tub. “I’m not sure I can do this gracefully.”

  “That’s fixed easy enough.” Standing, Joe simply wrapped both arms round her and lifted her over the lip of the bath. When Melody let go of the rug to put her arms round his neck, neither of them noticed it fall away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On Monday morning, Kincaid’s right hand was so stiff and swollen that he couldn’t move his fingers. What he didn’t tell Gemma was that the redness and swelling was also moving from his hand into his arm—she’d been worried enough as it was.

  Gemma had meant to borrow Melody’s car to take him to the A and E in Cheltenham, but Melody didn’t come down to breakfast. It was Ivan who’d rung his GP for an appointment for Kincaid, and Ivan who’d insisted on driving him to Cheltenham. Addie, not to be outdone, had planned an outing for Gemma and the kids to the bird park in Bourton-on-the-Water while the fine weather held.

  “I can’t keep you from work,” Kincaid protested to Ivan. “You’ve put up with enough trouble from us as it is.”

  “I’ve been working since five this morning,” Ivan said with a chuckle. Having seen the array of computer screens in Ivan’s home office, Kincaid hadn’t doubted him. “I could use a break,” Ivan added. “And I have an ulterior motive. A friend of mine has found a car you might want to look at.”

  Kincaid had checked in with his team at Holborn Station, then left Doug, who was ensconced once again with his laptop in the sitting room, to manage the bulk of the case management with their Holborn DI, Jasmine Sidana.

  It wasn’t until he was on the way to Cheltenham with Ivan that Kincaid suddenly realized his head felt clearer. While that was encouraging, it made him wonder just how muddled he’d been yesterday.

  When they reached Dr. Saunders’s surgery, however, she gave him a very critical eye. “Do you mind if Ivan comes in with you?” she asked, before ushering him into her consulting room.

  “So I need a responsible adult?” Kincaid joked, but the sharp look she gave him said that was exactly what she meant.

  “I feel much better,” he protested as he sat on the exam table. “Really. It’s just my hand that’s playing up.”

  “Well, let’s have a look at you,” Dr. Saunders said briskly. She shone her pencil light in his eyes, checking his pupils. “Still equal and reactive, so that’s a good sign. Headaches?”

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “Taking it easy?”

  “Um, more or less.” Ivan’s presence in the room made it impossible for Kincaid to tell an outright lie.

  “Ribs?”

  Kincaid grimaced. “Still pretty sore.”

  The doctor took the small pillow from the exam table and positioned it against his right side. “Press this to you, bend over it, and cough.”

  “Ouch. That hurts like hell.”

  “I want you to do that two or three times every couple of hours. It’s to keep you from getting pneumonia, so no slacking. Now, let’s have a look at that hand.” It was all Kincaid could do not to grit his teeth as she gently removed the dressing.

  Shaking her head, Dr. Saunders clucked disapprovingly as she examined the spreading redness. “Cellulitis.” When Kincaid looked blank, she added, “Bacterial skin infection. I’m going to clean and dress your hand again, but you’ll need to start on antibiotic tablets straightaway. No missing a dose, mind. This can be dangerous if not treated, besides being bloody uncomfortable.”

  Dr. Saunders glanced at Ivan as she worked. “I heard about the poor fellow hit by the car Saturday night.”

  “That news traveled fast,” Ivan said, quirking an eyebrow.

  “Pathologist is a friend. We had drinks last night.”

  He grinned. “Is there anyone you don’t know, Carol?”

  “Small world, the medical community. As is your village, apparently. What a shame for Bea Abbott, all this. That young woman has had more than her fair share of tragedy.”

  “I seem to remember hearing something about her family,” said Ivan, frowning. “When she and Viv Holland first bought the pub. Didn’t her mother commit suicide? But that must have happened years ago.”

  “Bea was a teenager. A year or two above my daughter in school.” She shook her head, her expression grim. “How someone can leave a child to live with that, I’ll never understand.”

  A mobile phone rang. It was a moment before Kincaid realized it was his, still in the pocket of the jacket he’d left draped over a chair. “Sorry,” he said, but he was held captive by Dr. Saunders’s ministrations to his hand. Ivan obligingly handed him the mobile.

  Kincaid had meant to decline the call, but when he saw it was Colin Booth, he murmured, “I’d better get this.”

  “Kincaid here,” he answered, then listene
d, frowning. “Let me call you back,” he said, and rang off.

  “That was Booth,” he told Ivan, adding for the doctor’s benefit, “the DI investigating the Lower Slaughter deaths. He’s going to interview Nell Greene’s ex-husband and wants to know if we can meet him.”

  “Bruce Greene?” said Dr. Saunders, finishing Kincaid’s new dressing.

  “You know him, too?” asked Ivan.

  “Yes, of course. I send my patients to him if they need a more thorough internal medicine workup than I can provide. He’s not a bad sort, Bruce, aside from the fooling-around business.”

  Kincaid frowned as he rolled his shirtsleeve down. “You mean when he was married to Nell?”

  Dr. Saunders sighed. “With one of his nurses, yes. But, as she’s the second Mrs. Greene now, and we see them socially, I suppose I can’t be too critical.”

  Taking a packet of tablets from the cupboard near the exam table, she handed them to Kincaid. “I want you to start these now. Take one three times a day, and I’ll write you a prescription for more.” As she fetched him a paper cup of water from a standing dispenser, she added thoughtfully, “You did know that Bruce Greene used to be partners with George Abbott, Bea’s father?”

  Kincaid stopped in the midst of buttoning his shirt cuff, an act he’d learned was quite difficult single-handed. “What? When was this?”

  “Oh, it was years ago. Bruce dissolved the partnership after George’s wife’s suicide.”

  “Do you know why?” Kincaid asked.

  “I have an idea, but it’s not for me to tell you. You’ll have to ask Bruce Greene.”

  “Oh, God.” Melody managed to peel one eye open, then shut it again. Why was it so bloody bright? She rolled away from the light and the room swayed alarmingly. With the rush of nausea came a flash of memory, and that made her feel even more ill.

  What on earth had she done? And just how big a fool had she made of herself?

  “Oh, God,” she said again, this time a moan, but she managed to open both eyes. Familiar ceiling. Familiar window. The guest room at Beck House. That at least was some comfort. She recalled now, in a jumble of images, waking in Joe’s narrow bed before dawn, leaving him sleeping as she stumbled back to the house, quaking with cold.

  Joe. She sat up, head pounding, and fumbled for her mobile, left last night on her bedside table. A glance at the time readout brought another unpleasant jolt—it was after ten. There were no texts from Andy. And there had only been one missed call, at half past eight, from Gemma, wanting to know if she could borrow her car.

  Shit. What must Gemma be thinking? What must everyone be thinking?

  Swinging her legs off the bed, she listened. The house was completely silent. Had they all packed up and gone back to London without her? Surely not. But that meant she was going to have to face everyone, and she was going to have to make up some excuse for lying in this morning. And she was going to have to apologize to Gemma.

  But there was something she had to do first.

  A shower and clean clothes having made her feel marginally better, she crept through the house, determined to avoid speaking to anyone, especially Doug, until she’d set things straight with Joe about last night.

  She slipped out the front door and walked round the garage towards the kitchen gardens, hoping to find Joe somewhere out of sight of the house. She’d reached the glasshouse when she saw him coming towards her up the path from the kitchen garden.

  “Melody,” he called, hurrying to her. “Are you okay? I was worried sick about you. I couldn’t ring you because I don’t have your number, and I didn’t want to come up to the house—I just wanted to say I was sorry about—”

  “Yes, me, too,” Melody broke in with a rush of relief. When he looked a bit hurt, she added, “Oh, I don’t mean— Oh, this is awkward.” Parts of the night came back vividly now and she flushed. “But we shouldn’t have—”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” Joe broke in with touching earnestness. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your, um, of the situation—of you—”

  “I was royally pissed, if that’s what you’re trying to say. And I put you in a terrible position. I wouldn’t want anything we did to affect your job, or to embarrass you—”

  The look he gave her was searching. “I thought maybe you were embarrassed about being with me—the gardener.”

  Melody shook her head. “Oh, Joe. Don’t be daft. Of course I’m not embarrassed about you. But we can’t— I mean I have—” She swallowed. “I guess you could call it unfinished business.”

  “The ex-boyfriend?” Joe said, and she could see the disappointment, quickly masked.

  “Yes. That’s why I was— Anyway, I need to try, at least, to sort things out. Things ended rather badly.” An understatement, she thought, if ever there was one.

  Joe nodded, his shoulders slumping. “I understand, but if things change . . .” He hesitated, his rueful smile vanishing. “Look, Melody, there’s something else. Can we talk?”

  “We are talking,” she said, perplexed.

  But Joe gave an anxious glance round, as if someone might be lurking in the shrubbery. “No, I mean—” He gestured toward the glasshouse. “Can we talk in there? It’s sort of personal. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  In her experience, those words never presaged good news. With a little cold lump of dread in her stomach, Melody followed him into the glasshouse. What, she wondered, could be more personal than apologizing for drunken shagging?

  For once, the warm, earthy atmosphere in the glasshouse did not feel comforting. In its close confines, she could smell the wood smoke on Joe’s clothes, and the scent of his soap.

  Turning away from her, Joe gazed down at the neat rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  Melody began making a mental list of dread diseases. “Look, Joe, if this is about—you know—what we did last night, you’d better tell me and get it ov—”

  He swung round to face her again, looking shocked. “No, it’s not about that at all. It’s about that chef. The one who died in the car crash with Nell Greene.”

  “What?” Melody was completely blindsided. “You mean Fergus O’Reilly? What does he have to do with—”

  “He was here. In the house.”

  It was a moment before Melody could do anything but stare. “You mean in my house?”

  “Well, yeah, your parents’ house, anyway.”

  “But surely not,” Melody protested, frowning. “My parents didn’t even know him. You must be mistaken.”

  Joe gave her a half smile. “Not likely. His wasn’t a face you’d forget. Not that his face was the first part of him I saw.”

  Taking a step back, Melody connected with a pile of bagged mulch and inadvertently sat. “You’d better explain.”

  “It was maybe three weeks ago—”

  “Then my parents wouldn’t have been here. They only came down the beginning of last week.”

  “No, they weren’t here,” Joe agreed. “Roz was.”

  “Roz Dunning?” Now Melody was really baffled. “But she never said she knew O’Reilly.”

  “Well, I can tell you that she did know him—at least in the biblical sense.” Joe sounded surprisingly snappish. “I came up to do my washing. I didn’t know Roz was here that day. So when I walked into the house and heard thumping noises coming from upstairs, I thought the house was being burgled. I grabbed the emergency torch and crept upstairs as quietly as I could. By the time I’d reached the top I was pretty certain it wasn’t burglars, but I kept going to your parents’ bedroom.” Joe winced. “That was a sight I wish I could un-see. But, then, they weren’t best pleased to see me, either.”

  “Roz was with Fergus O’Reilly? They were . . . having sex? In my parents’ room?”

  “They certainly weren’t playing charades.”

  “But—” Melody tried to wrap her mind round this. She wished her head would stop pounding. “This was three weeks ago?”
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  “Yeah. I usually do my washing on a Monday, so it was three weeks today.”

  According to what Melody had heard from the others, Fergus O’Reilly had checked into the manor house in Lower Slaughter three weeks ago, but hadn’t spent the night in his hotel room. Had he been with Roz Dunning? “But if she knew Fergus, why see him here? She lives alone, right?”

  “Roz says she didn’t know him. He came to see your mother. He was hoping for an in with Viv, and a ticket to the luncheon. But of course your mother wasn’t here, and Roz just—fancied him, I take it. I gather he was willing.”

  “But she—but he was a complete stranger? How could she—” Melody was appalled. But she couldn’t pass judgment.

  “Okay,” she said. “So Roz was shagging Fergus O’Reilly, at least once that we know of. But after Fergus died, why on earth didn’t she say she knew him? She was here when the police came to notify Viv.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want your mum to think badly of her. Then, when there were rumors about his death, she didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been honest in the first place.”

  Melody frowned, thinking things through. Something didn’t add up. “Joe, what I don’t understand is why you didn’t say anything before now.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and prodded a bag of mulch with the toe of his boot. “Because I’ve been an idiot. At first, I thought that Roz lying didn’t matter, that the car crash was just an unfortunate accident. But then yesterday, when I heard Jack Doyle had been killed, I started to wonder. And I couldn’t figure out why Roz was so determined no one find out about her and O’Reilly.”

  Melody remembered how hostile Roz had been yesterday when she’d happened on her washing her car. Washing her car. Christ. “Oh, God, Joe. You don’t think Roz could have run down Jack Doyle? But—”

  “Melody. Listen. There’s more.” He took a deep breath and she saw that he’d clenched his hands into fists. “I didn’t say anything because Roz was blackmailing me,” Joe blurted out. “You know she trained as an accountant, right? And that she keeps the business books as well as your mum’s personal accounts?” He looked away. “Well, she found . . . discrepancies . . . in the business account. She threatened to tell your mother if I said anything about her and O’Reilly.”