by JJ Marsh
Thus it was that Beatrice dragged her suitcase along Boot Street and gazed up at her old flat with curious mixture of nostalgia and relief. The nostalgia was due to the happy memories and the person she had once been. The relief was that she no longer had to fight with herself, her job and London on a daily basis. No need to get back on a Tube till tomorrow lunchtime, and even then, only to start her journey home. Best of all, she enjoyed the anticipation of an entertaining evening with friends.
Although Adrian had given her a key, she rang the bell out of politeness. The buzzer permitted her access and there, in the doorway of the first flat, was Adrian Harvey, looking dashing in a black shirt. From behind him came scents of fish, spice and citrus, accompanied by the uplifting tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
“You’re here!” He drew her into his embrace with one arm and took her wheelie case in the other. “Come in quick, we have so much to discuss before Isabella arrives. Shall I take this into your boudoir?”
“Thank you. How come you look even more handsome than last time I saw you? What is your secret, please?”
He threw a look over his shoulder as he wheeled her case to her room. “Love. And good genes. Go into the kitchen, Will’s making martinis.”
Beatrice kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat, then took her tote bag with wine and gifts into the kitchen. Will came around the kitchen island for a hug.
“Your hair looks lovely! How are you doing?”
“Thank you. I’m very well, if at least seventy quid worse off for a hairdo which will last all of four hours. How are you?”
Will motioned her to a stool and began pouring the brine from an olive jar into three cocktail glasses. “I’m feeling better than I have done in a long time. Since we wrapped up that slavery case, I have my weekends to myself again.” With a practised air, he measured gin and vermouth into a silver container, added ice and shook the mixture for ten seconds. “Not to mention signs of upward mobility.”
“Yes, I wanted to congratulate you on that case. Dawn said it was a massive operation. Well done, DS Quinn.” Beatrice watched as the crystalline liquid flowed into the olive juice, creating a muddy blend of beauty. Will added an olive speared with a toothpick to each, just as Adrian returned.
“I appreciate that, ex-DCI Stubbs. Dirty Martinis. I hope you approve.”
“Anything with dirty in the title appeals to me.” Beatrice admired her glass. “When you say ‘upward mobility’, are you referring to the crocuses coming out or the possibility of promotion?”
Will’s face broke into a wide smile and he raised his glass. “Next month, I have a date for my assessment and interview for the position of DI. Let’s not count our chickens, but I’m optimistic. Cheers!”
“Cheers, you lovely couple, and I’m very happy to see you both again.”
They toasted and Beatrice savoured the kick of salty water, delicate vermouth and hit of gin which stayed with her long after she’d swallowed the first sip.
“Delicious! This might be my first, but I already know that I love Dirty Martinis and always will. Listen to me, Detective Sergeant Quinn, you would make a brilliant DI and if your supervisors can’t see that, there’s something wrong with them. Would it help if I put in a word?”
Will replaced his glass on the counter. “It probably would. The thing is, I’d actually like to do this on my own merits. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the offer. If I crash and burn this time around, can I ask again?”
“For an officer of your calibre, the offer is always there.”
“I appreciate that.” He returned to the hob while Adrian hopped up to sit on the stool beside her.
“So?” he asked.
“So what?” she replied. “This Lopez female, the wine, the general opinions on politics and weather and country living – what do you want first? By the way, what’s for dinner? It smells divine.”
“One of Will’s specials. New England chowder with a side of potato wedges with honeymoon sauce. We picked it up on, well, our honeymoon.”
Beatrice lifted her nose into the air and sniffed. “And what exactly is ‘Honeymoon Sauce’? As an elderly lady, I have a sensitive palate, you know.”
Adrian laughed. “You are far from elderly and you’re going to love this. It has all your favourite flavours. Though had we known we would be cooking for a Michelin-starred chef, we might have chosen a different menu.”
“Like battered cod and twice fried chips from Pavel and Miki on Old Street?” called Will, grinning at his husband. “Anyway it’s not Isabella but her husband who’s the chef. Don’t worry. The food will be fine. My only concern is whether you’ve chosen the right wine to go with it.”
Adrian faked outrage. “Don’t get chippy with me. And you can stop smirking, that pun was intentional. Isabella is here to meet Beatrice. We could serve her pasta with a jar of supermarket sauce with wine out of a box and I doubt she’d notice. Her aim is to get Beatrice to accept this job, one hundred per cent.”
Beatrice took another sip of martini and released a sigh. “Tell me a bit about this job.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” said Will, pointing a wooden spoon at Adrian. “I knew you’d try to get your oar in first. It’s not your place. Shut up and let Isabella explain when she gets here. This has nothing to do with you. Or me.”
Adrian wrinkled his nose. “He’s right, much as I hate to admit it. It’s just that I know how to tell a story so much better than most. Well, you’ll have to wait for her to explain and use our time to catch up on the important stuff. How’s Matthew? How’s the book?”
“Matthew’s fine and sends his love. Those French wines are from him and he recommends enjoying them with cheese or charcuterie. As for the book, it is no more. It is an ex-book.”
Will and Adrian both stared at her, their respective actions of herb-chopping and martini-sipping interrupted.
“No big deal and let us not have a pity party over a project that simply didn’t come off. Turns out I’m not a writer. I saw my therapist today, as you know. James pointed out the escape route I’d been seeking. No one commissioned me to write the thing, no one is eagerly anticipating its arrival in bookstores, no one insists on my writing this book other than me. I can give myself permission to desist. So I am abandoning ... no, that’s negative language. I am walking away from an endeavour which makes me feel inadequate and brings me no fulfilment.”
She could hear the question reverberating around this tasteful modern kitchen with all its chrome, marble and slate. So what will you do instead? Thankfully neither of these sensitive souls gave it voice.
“OK, that makes sense,” said Adrian. “Tell us about your girls’ night with Dawn yesterday. How’s she doing?”
Conversation guided onto safer tracks, martini hour was over before they had even realised it. At ten past eight, the doorbell rang and the personality of Isabella Lopez burst into the room.
“Beatrice Stubbs! I look for you everywhere and now, finally, you are here!”
Dinner, as Beatrice had known it would be, was a delicious triumph. A fish stew cooked with fresh vegetables in a rich stock, accompanied by sweet potato wedges with a hot peppery sauce, satisfied every taste. Adrian made a point of explaining his and Isabella’s wine pairings and the atmosphere was genial.
Yet the conversation revolved around one topic. Isabella’s problem and how only Beatrice could solve it. At first she was flattered and simply sought a polite way to refuse. But after Isabella had shown her the picture of the murdered star chef, explained her husband’s sense of honour and expanded on the restaurant’s standing in the community, a familiar curiosity tugged at her gut. Her resolve to retire from the business of detection was weakening and she needed a buttress.
“Will, in your professional opinion, wouldn’t an undercover job in a high-end Neapolitan restaurant be better suited to someone who speaks the language and can actually cook pastries and desserts? A fifty-something ex-copper whose speciality is toad-in-the-hole is going
to stand out like a sore plum. I’m sure we could point Isabella in the right direction of some suitable private detective agencies.”
For a few seconds, no one spoke and the only sounds in the room were cutlery on china and some smoky jazz.
Will chewed the last mouthful of sweet potato and put down his fork. “Possibly, yes. On the other hand, the situation could benefit you both. Here’s what I think. Isabella is right. You have all the skills to work such a case and it would be something you’d enjoy. The flip side is you have none of the skills to pass yourself off as an Italian expert on puddings. That would have to be Isabella’s call. The thing is, if the book is not to be, you could take this opportunity to set yourself up as a private detective. Think about it. You could take the jobs you want, refuse those you don’t and only work when a case appeals to you.”
That was not the response Beatrice had expected.
“Oh my God!” gasped Adrian. “That is perfect! Your own detective agency? I love the idea and starting with a case of culinary espionage is so very you. Will’s right, Beatrice, you could do this! With your contacts, your experience, there is no one better qualified. You know what? I could ask Jared to design you a logo. Beatrice Stubbs P.I. – Detective for Hire!”
“Beatrice, listen to me,” implored Isabella. “Our restaurant employs staff from seven countries. With so many languages, English is our lingua franca. My father-in-law made every one of his children and grandchildren spend a year abroad to learn English. You don’t need to speak Italian to work for us; I’m not fluent. Most important is you need to understand the cooking.” She knocked her knuckles against her forehead. “I have it! You are a winner of a competition. Your prize is to learn from the best chefs in Europe. Not an expert but learning on the job and bringing your own skills. Yes, this works! Beatrice, please, we need you.”
The idea of a private detective agency thrilled Beatrice to her bones. The idea of telling Matthew she was off to Naples, working undercover to combat organised crime, less so. She needed time and all her powers of persuasion. Because paid investigative work beat voluntary community support hands down.
“Will, that was a lovely meal and I wouldn’t mind copying the recipe for that sauce. Isabella, thank you for the offer. I will give it serious consideration, but it must be a decision taken by my partner and myself. Now that I have finally retired from the force, I suspect he might look most unfavourably on the idea of putting my health at risk once again. Leave it with me and I will do my best. I promise to give you an answer by Monday. Now I’d prefer to change the subject. It’s Matthew’s birthday in a few weeks. Would either of you two wine experts have a top tip for a lesser-known vintage?”
Chapter 5
A heron stood in the river, shoulders hunched so it resembled a little old man. Beatrice and Matthew stopped to watch it as they crossed the stone bridge. Reflections of overhanging trees shimmered and fractured in the fast-moving water and the sunnier of the two riverbanks sported a clutch of daffodils. Such cheerful yellow flowers always brought a smile to Beatrice’s face.
Huggy Bear came running back to see what had delayed them, so they moved on with their walk, pointing out to one another primroses and unfurling leaves in the brightest green. The sun shone through the trees, creating little spotlights on the ferns and mosses beside the path. One could almost see the earth warming, waking and bursting into colour.
A bark made them look up.
“I hope she hasn’t gone chasing after rabbits again,” said Matthew. “I was searching for over an hour on Saturday morning.”
They rounded the corner to see the terrier with her front paws on the trunk of a tree, looking up into the canopy. She barked again.
“Squirrels,” said Beatrice. “You won’t catch one, pooch, they’re far too quick for you. Come on.”
The trio made their way out of the woods and across the field, heading back to the cottage. Despite the sun’s best efforts, the wind was chilly and Beatrice’s nose and ears were numb with cold. Thoughts of the fireplace and a mug of coffee encouraged her to pick up the pace.
Matthew spoke as they crunched their way up the drive. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About our conversation last night?” asked Beatrice.
“Partly. And partly about Tanya.”
Beatrice couldn’t see what the offer of a private detection job in Italy had to do with Matthew’s youngest daughter. She waited for him to offer a link.
He said nothing and unlocked the front door to begin the process of kicking off wellingtons, taking off coats and drying a dirty Border terrier.
She decided to give him a prod. “Did you come to any conclusions on either subject?”
Matthew pulled off his hat and hung it on its hook. “Not conclusions, exactly, but I do have the beginnings of an idea.”
Once the dog was at least slightly cleaner than she had been when they got home, Beatrice released her out of the hallway and into the house. Huggy Bear raced over to her food bowl and sat down. Beatrice put on her slippers and headed into the kitchen to make coffee, allowing Matthew to get to the point in his own time. Dumpling unfurled from his position on the kitchen chair, blinked his Pernod-coloured eyes, and with tail held high wandered out in search of breakfast.
The pot was bubbling and the milk warmed by the time Matthew had finished feeding the animals and continued his speech.
“Yes. As I said last night, I think the private detective agency is an inspired idea. However, I’m not at all keen on you going off to Naples on your own to investigate a situation which has already claimed one life. It might be different if I were there to keep you company and ensure you’re not walking the streets alone. The fact is, I have a great deal of affection for Naples and its history. Which led me to Tanya.”
Beatrice poured the coffee, opened the biscuit tin and selected a chocolate digestive. “Still not quite making the connection,” she said.
“You see, if we were going to Naples, it would be the perfect opportunity to take Luke along. At six years old, he can appreciate seeing his history lessons come to life. Imagine taking him to see Pompeii, for example. Not only that, but I would like my grandson to learn a little about other languages, cultures and cuisines. As a single mother, Tanya has not been able to afford many holidays abroad. Last year when they joined us in Portugal was only the second time he’s been out of the country.”
“So you’re proposing we go to Naples with Tanya and Luke?” asked Beatrice, surprised at this turn of events.
“No. I’m proposing you and I take Luke, leaving Tanya with some time to herself for a change. Firstly, we should get Luke into the habit of travelling with us a few times a year and secondly ...”
“Tanya can have some time alone with Gabriel!”
“Precisely. Their friendship may date back to primary school, but the romance is relatively young. It is short notice, as Luke’s holidays start next Monday, but what say we suggest taking him away with us for a fortnight? You can pursue your investigation, I can show Luke the city of Naples and when you’re not on the job, we can enjoy exploring the Amalfi Coast. Meanwhile, Tanya can have some quality time with her new boyfriend.”
Beatrice beamed at him. “You are quite brilliant, you know.”
When Beatrice called Naples, Isabella was ecstatic. “I am putting everything in place today. I make the story. You are a reality TV winner, on tour of European restaurants, learning Italian pastries. You stay two weeks only and we have an apartment you can stay in with your husband. No one knows who you are really. Only me and Agusto. We all play our roles and you sniff out the spy, yes?”
“As I said in my email, I can guarantee nothing,” Beatrice repeated. “However, I promised to put all my energy and expertise into finding the leak in your operation. My partner and I may well be travelling with a young child. Is there a sofa bed or spare mattress we can use?”
Isabella hooted. “There are five bedrooms, a dining room and a roof terrace! You will have enoug
h space for guests. Email to me the flight details and I will arrange a car. I am so excited you are coming to Napoli! A week seems too long to wait. There is much to organise, I must go now?”
“Um, about the question of payment. Our agreement was ...”
“Of course! I will make the first payment today, as we discussed. Oh, Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“You can learn a lot about pastry in one week. Do your homework, eh? Ciao, arrivederci and see you very soon!”
The phone went dead before Beatrice could respond. She sat by the telephone table and thought about Masterchef, The Great British Cake Off and that other programme with annoying men in cars. A grey shape appeared from the kitchen. Dumpling’s mouth was making the shape of a miaow, even if no sound emerged.
“Hello, old fellow. What do you say to a saucer of milk before the hooligans return? Come over here and meet Italy’s Next Top Pastrychef.”
With the cat curled up on Matthew’s kitchen chair, Beatrice made up her mind to go the hard way. Choux pastry, one of the most difficult recipes a person could attempt, according to her mother. She researched methods and rooted about the cupboards until she had assembled the ingredients, then set to work.
Two hours later, when Matthew returned, the kitchen table was laden with assorted desserts, some more successful than others. Most of the choux buns had collapsed, causing the profiterole tower to lean further than the one in Pisa. The biscotti looked exactly as they did in the recipe book picture, but the crunch factor was harder than expected. The amaretti were edible, if a touch on the soggy side. But chilling in the fridge was Beatrice’s tiramisù, a long-practised favourite, lightly dusted in cocoa powder, much like herself.
Huggy Bear dashed around the kitchen in excitement while Matthew blinked at the scene of devastation. Pans, bowls, sieves, spoons and forks filled the sink; the floor was patterned with cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and some spilt pistachios and beside the slowly cooling oven stood a pile of eggshells.
