by Kate Adams
‘Sophie?’ I had just said goodbye to Yeshim, who I had agreed could have an early night. I was more than capable of overseeing the end of the drinks reception. ‘Sophie, I need to talk to you.’
Domenico Negri was trying to get my attention. Despite Negri being over 200 years old and long since dead and buried, this wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. A couple of members of the live interpretation team had been employed to attend the reception dressed as significant food-related characters who had links with the house and engage with the guests. During the day, they would dress as historical characters and talk to the visitors, often recreating events from throughout the history of Charleton House. They weren’t simply actors who memorised lines and hoped no one asked them an awkward question; they carried out in-depth research and took pride in remaining in character, no matter what they were asked or how visitors behaved around them.
Negri had been an Italian confectioner who, in the 1760s, had supplied the 5th Duke of Ravensbury with a spectacular dessert for his wife’s birthday. Negri had presented an enormous, delicately handcrafted spread of sweetmeats, macarons, biscuits, marshmallow, fruits and creams, which would have been displayed like a work of art with sugar ornaments creating country scenes, fountains and buildings.
I took Negri over to a quiet corner.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It might be nothing. I might just have missed it, but I don’t think so.’ The Italian accent he had been using with the guests had gone. I rested my hand on his arm.
‘What might you have missed? I don’t understand.’
Negri took a deep breath, glanced around, then carried on, almost whispering.
‘I was walking through the Stone Gallery. I know it’s not officially open tonight, but we’ve been allowed to use it to get from our changing room to here. Well, I’ve been back and forth a couple of times, but when I came back through it a few minutes ago, I noticed that something was missing. Do you know the big green bowl with a brown rim? Looks like chocolate has been smeared round the edge and is melting into the bowl? It always sits on the table below the painting of the girl and dog?’ His description rang bells, but I honestly couldn’t be sure I knew what he was referring to. ‘I could have sworn it was there earlier in the night, but now it’s gone. The table is empty.’
My heart sank. I had dealt with drunken guests and fire alarms, running out of wine, and guests and staff alike being taken ill, but never this. Now I wished I hadn’t let Yeshim go home. I called the security office on the radio and let them know we had a possible missing object, then searched around for the conservation team member who had been keeping an eye on things. When I found her, I pulled her aside.
‘Ellie, quick, I need you to come with me.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Not here.’ I led her out of the room, trying to look calm and composed, and took her through to the Stone Gallery, a simple stone-floored corridor where some of the Duke’s art was on display. Beneath the picture of a girl and a dog stood an empty table.
‘Is there normally a bowl here?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ – she looked confused – ‘the St Ives Bowl. Where is it?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me. It’s not gone for conservation work or been loaned out?’
‘No, we never loan it out. It’s a personal piece of the Duke’s, a gift to his mother by the ceramicist who made it. It has no financial value, but he loves it.’ The Dowager Duchess had been a real firebrand: a remarkable character who loomed large over the more recent history of Charleton House. It was she and her husband, the 11th Duke of Ravensbury, who had first opened the house to the public. Glamorous, outspoken and possessed of a wicked sense of humour, she was rarely seen without a martini in her hand in her later years, and martini would always be found on the Garden Café menu in her honour. I wished that she had lived long enough for me to meet her; I know I would have been terrified of her, but in awe of her nonetheless.
Ellie glanced around, as though expecting to find the bowl on another shelf or above one of the fireplaces along the wall.
‘What’s going on, girls?’ I recoiled at the use of ‘girls’, but chose to ignore it and turned to face Pat, a security officer.
‘We’re missing a bowl.’ I pointed at the table. ‘It was there at the start of the evening, now it’s gone.’
Pat thought for a moment. ‘You positive?’ He looked at me like I was a small child. ‘Sure you’re not mistaken, mislaid it, your memory going?’
‘Very sure.’ My teeth were clenched. I took a deep breath and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’m reporting a missing item to you. I trust I can now leave this in your hands and…’
‘Is everything alright?’ Before I had the chance to start using four-letter words, DI Flynn walked in. ‘I saw security come through.’ He nodded at Pat. ‘Can I be of assistance?’
‘A significant item from the collection has gone missing, sir.’ Pat stood ramrod straight, his voice having changed to one of control and respect. He seemed determined to make me punch him this evening. ‘I was just about to take appropriate action when you walked in, sir.’
I stepped forward, glaring at Pat as I did so, daring him to stop me carrying out my role. As onsite manager for the event, I quickly filled DI Flynn in on the situation and that we were about to call the police.
‘Well, as the police are already onsite’ – the corner of his mouth showed the beginnings of a smile – ‘I’ll take over.’ He nodded at Pat. ‘You head back to the security office and get your team to start shutting this place down. I don’t want anyone leaving. I’ll have a quick word with the Duke, break the news to him. All clear?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ Pat dashed off down the corridor, looking as if it was the first time he’d done any ‘dashing’ in years and he was probably regretting the family-sized pizza I’d seen him ploughing his way through earlier in the evening.
DI Flynn turned back to us. ‘I’ll need everyone to remain onsite, so please let your teams know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to break the news to the Duke.’
With that, he strode purposefully down the corridor, and I prepared to spend the rest of the evening placating guests who were trapped here. Mind you, there were worse places to be trapped.
Fortunately, the majority of the guests didn’t notice that there was a problem. We just kept pouring wine, and when we were out of canapés, I ran back to the Library Café kitchens and pulled a few cakes out of the fridge. Alcohol and cake – it was a sure-fire way to keep people occupied and onside.
In the meantime, the Stone Gallery had been closed off and declared a potential crime scene. DI Flynn, with the help of the security team, had conducted a sweep of nearby rooms to check the bowl hadn’t found its way elsewhere, and all the live interpreters who had used the gallery as a short cut had been put in a separate room. When I’d taken them some refreshments, I’d been met by a bizarre sight: two eighteenth-century characters, one male, one female, sitting on a very modern sofa, killing time on their mobile phones. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it never failed to amuse me.
After a thorough search of staff bags, eventually DI Flynn declared that the reception guests could leave, but anyone with a bag large enough to conceal the bowl would need to be searched. Once the guests had gone, he pulled me aside.
‘I just wanted to give you a quick update. The Stone Gallery is off limits and I have a team in there now, taking fingerprints. We’ve completed bag searches and found nothing, so we’ll let the staff leave shortly. There’s currently no sign of anything on CCTV, and the likelihood is that the bowl is long gone.’ He sighed. ‘The Duke is of course devastated, but equally he’s realistic about it all, especially with the lack of any sort of art alarm system attached to the item. I was rather hoping that he would have invested in some upgrades to the security system by now, especially after recent events.’
He was referring to a murder that had occurred onsite a couple of months ago. Much to D
I Flynn’s annoyance, I had identified the killer before anyone else. This event was the first time our paths had crossed since the murder and I was a little surprised by how civil he was being, but I took it as a sign of his professionalism and gave him a brownie point.
‘Do you think this is related to the theft up at Berwick?’
‘I don’t know, but it seems a bit of a coincidence that something goes missing from two historic buildings not far apart on the same day.’ He paused, then looked at me intently. ‘But what I do know is that the police don’t need any help.’ His eyes drilled into mine. ‘OK?’
I nodded. ‘The thought had never crossed my mind, Inspector.’
Chapter 4
I’d been warned that the cafés would be quiet over the weekend of the Food Festival, but my staff weren’t allowed to take it easy. When I arrived at work the next morning, I helped to set up the Garden Café, a beautiful Baroque orangery with enormous ceiling-high windows that looked out onto the gardens. When it was built in the 1700s, it had been heated with stoves, and in the winter it was used as a conservatory for delicate plants. Now it was an elegant café where visitors came for afternoon tea and a glass of champagne. When the British weather was behaving itself, the doors were fastened back and tables placed among the lime and lemon trees that decorated the patio.
Most of my team had yet to arrive so I had the opportunity to enjoy my surroundings in peace. The sunlight streamed in and cast a gauze-like veil over the tables. The glassware had been polished to within an inch of its life and sparkled, ready to hold fine wines, glasses waiting to be clinked together in moments of celebration. The freesias that had been delivered by the gardens team were ready to go in delicate vases and bring some subtle colour to each table.
‘Morniiiing,’ Mark trilled as he flew through the door. ‘The sun is shining, you need more coffee and I need gossip, so we’re heading out to the garden where you can fill up on caffeine and loosen that tongue of yours.’ He put his arm through mine and marched me towards the patio doors that were already open. We let ourselves out through a gate and made our way down the path towards the Food Festival stalls.
There was already a buzz of activity, even though it was only 9am. It was still an hour until the visitors would be let in, but there was bound to be plenty to do before then. Robin Scrimshaw, the head gardener, was heading in the same direction as us with an enormous roll of black bin bags under his arm.
‘Bit early, aren’t ya?’ he asked.
‘We reckoned we could have a bit of a wander before the hordes arrive,’ Mark replied. ‘Besides which, if I don’t get some good quality coffee in this one, then… well, it’s just not worth thinking about.’
I smiled and shrugged in agreement. ‘Will you get a chance to explore the stalls?’ I asked Robin.
‘Sort of. The whole garden team is being kept busy, whether it’s emptyin’ bins’ – he pointed at the bin bags under his arm – ‘or keeping people off the flowers, but we always get given treats by the stallholders for free, especially if we help ’em out with somethin.’
We’d reached the circle of stalls and Robin set off to distribute rubbish bags. Lucy and Kathy were still setting up Signal Box Coffee. The cherry-red van immediately put a smile on my face, and Lucy spotted me straight away.
‘Morning, Sophie, can we get you a coffee?’
‘That would be great, thank you.’
‘And…’ She looked at Mark.
‘Mark. I’d love some, thank you.’
As Lucy got to work, I spotted Kathy carrying some boxes into the van. She nodded in our direction when she saw us, but she looked tired and not quite as happy to be there as her sister.
‘So, how did the Duke take it?’ Mark brought me back to last night’s events. ‘He must have been furious to have it taken right from under his nose.’
‘It wasn’t exactly under his nose. It was hard to tell, he seemed quite business-like. Maybe “subdued” would be the right word. When I saw him, he was just listening to DI Flynn as he updated him.’
Mark shook his head. ‘Poor man, he loves that piece. The previous Duchess cherished it, and so did he once his mother passed away.’
‘If it was so precious, why was it on display in a public route? Why didn’t he keep it in his study or somewhere off limits?’
‘The artist became quite well known, and when she died, the Duke felt it was important to share her work with the public. That’s just the way he is. He doesn’t believe art should be locked away and enjoyed only by those with vast amounts of money. Also, it doesn’t have a great deal of financial value. The artist became recognised as a superb ceramicist, but she wasn’t hugely collectable. So in theory, it wasn’t at risk.’
‘Then why would someone steal it if it’s not valuable?’ I asked. Mark shrugged his shoulders.
‘No idea. The thrill? The mistaken belief that it was valuable?’
‘Here you are, two mugs of coffee. You can keep the mugs.’ Lucy had appeared with two wonderful Signal Box Coffee mugs; they were the classic chunky diner shape and mine felt great in my hand. A little illustration of a signal box and the name of the company were painted on the side in white; the mug itself was a red that matched the van.
She had made my morning. ‘Thanks, Lucy, they’re great,’ – I took a sip – ‘and so is the coffee. I held off having my usual cup when I got to work; I wanted to wait for this.’ I breathed in the rich aroma and took a bigger mouthful. Lucy looked over at Mark and smiled.
‘Sorry, did you have to suffer while she deprived herself of caffeine?’
‘She wasn’t too bad, but I keep a taser to hand just to be on the safe side.’ He smirked, clearly delighted that he’d found someone to engage with in some banter at my expense.
‘Don’t encourage him. It was worth the wait. Look, I’ve been thinking, I’d love to sit down with you sometime and learn a bit more about the company.’
I was about to suggest we catch up once the festival was over when I was interrupted by a voice in my ear. ‘Ours is much better.’
I turned quickly and spilt hot coffee on the back of my hand, which hurt like hell and brought tears to my eyes. ‘Ow, dammit!’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, that was my fault. Here.’ Guy handed me a handkerchief that he’d pulled out of his pocket. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. Are you OK?’ He looked genuinely worried. Kyle was with him, and he simply looked embarrassed.
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I dried my hand and wiped the mug before handing back the coffee-stained handkerchief.
‘Guy, you idiot!’ Lucy didn’t look best pleased as she reached for the mug. ‘Let me top you up, Sophie.’
‘No, it’s fine, honestly, I didn’t lose much.’ Looking up to see Kathy glaring at Guy, I sensed a little tension. ‘You must have lots to do, we should get back to work.’
‘Not really.’ Guy put his hands in his pockets. ‘We did most of it yesterday and Ben was planning on getting here early to finish off. He’ll be in there now.’ He nodded towards the Airstream. ‘He’s more of an early bird than us.’ Turning towards Kathy’s retreating back, he bellowed, ‘Morning, Kathy.’ There was no response, but she’d have had to have been deaf not to hear him. She’d made no effort to come and talk to us once he’d arrived, and now she was ignoring his greeting, which seemed out of character for the friendly woman I’d been introduced to yesterday.
The Airstream was still closed up. Ben hadn’t opened the serving hatch or put out any signage, so it looked like an enormous silver bullet: very cool, but a bit soulless. I watched as Robin headed towards the back door, brandishing a handful of bin bags.
Lucy turned back towards the campervan. ‘Well, I must get on. Thanks for stopping by, Sophie, and yes, it would be great to meet up. Just let me know when you’re free.’
‘I guess we should give Ben a hand.’ I was surprised to hear Kyle’s voice; he had been so quiet. ‘Guy, are you coming?’
‘Of course. Sorry again,
Sophie. I definitely owe you a coffee now, so drop by when you’re ready for your next top-up.’ He smiled and turned, but had barely taken a step before the back door to the Airstream was flung open and Robin burst out.
‘HELP, SOMEONE, HELP,’ he cried. ‘HE’S DEAD!’
Chapter 5
‘I thought you were working on the theft at Berwick Hall.’
Joe sat next to me on a bench that had a great view of the Airstream. ‘I am, I’m multi-tasking, and we’re not exactly flush with officers right now.’
I still had hold of my Signal Box Coffee mug and turned it slowly in my hands. ‘So how bad is it?’
‘Pretty bad,’ he replied. ‘Poor guy had his head bashed in. It looks like whoever did it used one of those coffee things. You know – you bang it really hard, and then put coffee grounds in it before slotting it into the machine.’ He mimed the actions of a barista.
‘You mean the portafilter?’
He shrugged and gave me a blank look. ‘If you say so. Anyway, one of those. It was lying on the floor covered in… well, you don’t need to know, but there’s a bloody great hole in his head.’
‘Poor Ben. That’s a horrible way to go. Is there any sign of a struggle?’
Joe nodded. ‘Some, and it looks like a few things might have been taken. I’ll need Guy or Kyle to confirm.’
Guy was talking to a uniformed police officer; Kyle was pacing up and down, seemingly in a different world. I nudged Joe and pointed in Kyle’s direction.
‘He looks like he’s in shock, is there someone who can take care of him?’
‘I’ll make sure he’s looked after. Now, you sure you didn’t see anything unusual, anyone around the van?’
‘You mean the Airstream? No, only Robin Scrimshaw. He was going round to every stall and handing out bin bags. We were all just chatting; Guy and Kyle thought Ben was in there working.’
