by Kate Adams
We’d moved over to the bar and Steve started emptying a dishwasher as we spoke. The hot steam from the machine hit me in the face and I stepped back.
‘Sorry, luv, I should have warned you.’
I removed my glasses and wiped the steam from them. ‘Did you tell the police that?’
‘What, that he ate in his room?’ He thought for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘No, they wanted to know if he’d had breakfast here and what time he’d left, so that’s what I told them. Is everything OK?’
I didn’t want to give too much away; I had no idea if Steve was one of those gossipy landlords who enjoy knowing everyone’s business and coming across as the fount of all knowledge, so I kept my feelings to myself.
‘Everything’s fine, thanks, I just wanted to check. See you soon.’ After promising to return for a drink as soon as possible, I jumped back in the car, noting exactly what time I set off. I wanted to be 100% sure how long it took me to get back up to the house.
‘So you think he might have snuck out after he’d had his breakfast delivered, killed Ben, and then returned so he could be seen leaving the pub later on?’
I was sitting in my stuffy office with the door closed, beads of sweat running down my forehead. I felt sticky and disgusting, but I had to make sure no one could overhear my phone conversation with Joe. To be extra sure, I’d turned the dishwasher on in the kitchen. The noise drowned out any conversation that escaped under the door, but it just added to the heat. At this rate I was going to sweat off a few pounds – no bad thing.
‘It’s possible. It took me nine minutes to drive from the pub to the car park. Kyle had two hours from the point of breakfast being delivered to being seen leaving the pub. You said that Ben had been murdered around about 8am. That gives Kyle loads of time to get here, argue with Ben, kill him and get back.’
‘True.’ Joe didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘But how did he manage it without appearing on camera? The car park is almost fully covered, and if he took the route stallholders take to get to their stalls, he’d definitely have been seen. And the security staff would have had to sign him in anyway. Nobody said anything about seeing him.’
He had a point, but I wasn’t giving up that easily. ‘Kyle grew up around here, which means he probably knew the estate reasonably well and knew how to get in and out unseen. Most locals have walked the estate countless times over the years, and they drive through here regularly. It’s not uncommon for the security team to find some drunken teenagers daring each other to climb over walls and go for a dip in the Great Pond.’
‘And his motive?’ Joe didn’t sound like he was completely dismissing my theory. If anything, I imagined he was annoyed with the police officers who had interviewed Steve and not got the details about Kyle having breakfast in his room, out of sight of anyone else: a distinctly less watertight alibi than they had previously believed.
‘Kyle and Guy are passing off someone else’s coffee as their own. It means they have considerably less overheads as they haven’t had to buy a roaster. They’re not paying the costs associated with running it and they’re not dealing with the hassle of importing beans. They’re repackaging someone else’s coffee, marking up the price and selling it for a decent profit. Buying expensive locally produced products is all the rage now. You should have seen the prices at some of the stalls over the weekend, and yet people were still happily handing over their cash. It wouldn’t take much to run, and Kyle and Guy could have been leaving Ben to do all the work, while they’re off making more money through other business ventures.’
There was silence on the other end as Joe took in what I was saying.
‘None of this is without logic, Sophie, but I just don’t know how Kyle could have got in and out of the gardens without being spotted by someone. The gardens team, for example – there were about half a dozen of them preparing for the start of the festival, and many of them had been onsite since 6am and were working within the vicinity of the festival stalls. But none of them saw anything out of the ordinary. It would have made more sense for Elliot to have done it. He was actually meant to be in the gardens at that time, but he has an alibi too.
‘I’ll talk to DS Harnby and we’ll get someone over to the industrial estate. At the very least, Kyle and Guy are going to have to answer some awkward questions from the Trading Standards Office about how they run their business, and they’re bound to wind up in court over that. And you’re right, if Ben got tired of how they were doing business, then both Kyle and Guy have suddenly got a substantial motive for wanting him out of the way. But alibis and access to the gardens are problematic. Leave it with me.’
‘There’s something else you ought to be aware of as well.’ As I told Joe about Bruce’s business card and that he probably knew about the scam, I heard him breathe out, hard. I could imagine him leaning back in his chair and messing with his hair as he thought about what I’d told him; I’d seen him do it before when he was taken by surprise. He didn’t seem to realise doing it would leave his hair in a straggly mess, but it was rather endearing nonetheless.
‘Well that’s a new one. I’ll add it to my list of things for DS Harnby… Thanks, I owe you.’ I’d yet to meet her, but I knew that Detective Sergeant Harnby was proving to be a tough, though fair, boss, so I was pleased to be able to give Joe something he could take to her and maybe gain a few extra brownie points at the same time.
Chapter 12
I still have plenty of days when I need to pinch myself. It can be hard to take in the fact that I work in one of the most stunningly beautiful houses in England, especially as it’s a common occurrence for me to sit chatting with the Duke or Duchess of Ravensbury. Today was one of those days. I had a meeting with the Duchess to discuss the catering for a private event she was hosting, and so here I was, on a seemingly ordinary Thursday morning, looking out of the window of the private study she shared with her husband.
The Duchess is a handsome woman; slim, but not waiflike. There is a physical strength in her posture and figure that is matched by a determination and focus in her eyes. The expression ‘eyes in the back of their head’ seems to have been invented for her, yet she doesn’t instil a sense of fear. Instead, she inspires great loyalty, and I have never heard a single negative word directed towards the Duchess. People find her impressive and warm. She loves Charleton House and talks about that love openly. Fascinated by the history of the family she has married into, she doesn’t shy away from discussing the more colourful Fitzwilliam-Scott characters and their exploits. The Duke has the same attitude; there are no skeletons in their closets, the Duke having long since invited them all to dinner.
The only thing about the Duchess that’s difficult to fathom is her dislike of coffee. She hates the stuff, an attitude I find impossible to relate to.
‘It’s not the most spectacular of views,’ the Duchess said as she handed me a delicate china cup of coffee and glanced out of the window, ‘but as the courtyard below is off limits to the public, it does make for a quiet working life.’ Outside were brightly coloured window boxes along the sills of all the lower windows, and Robin was currently replanting a number of them. Beyond that, it was a simple, small stone courtyard that I wasn’t aware served any particular purpose; at least, not anymore.
The Duchess took a seat behind an enormous wooden desk that would have needed an army of men to move. I guessed everything stayed where it was in this room; no spur of the moment furniture rearranging, and if it wasn’t feng shui, then so be it. A second desk, the Duke’s, sat at a right angle to the Duchess’s. Against the other two walls were waist-high bookcases and a couple of ancient wooden filing cabinets, which I imagined getting stuck on a regular basis and requiring a lot of cursing and shoving to open. Although bearing in mind this was the office of a duke and duchess, the likelihood was the furniture behaved as well as the staff did when they were nearby.
Dozens of photos in exquisite silver frames lined the tops of bookcases and the walls wer
e home to portraits, both painted and photographed, of family members and friends. Photos of presidents and prime ministers being welcomed to the house were interspersed with group photos of university students: a much younger Duke stood among his mainly male classmates, all in bow ties and tails at Oxford University. Privilege and confidence oozed from every pore.
I spotted Malcolm; even in a black-and-white photo, it was possible to make out his ruddy cheeks. In his youth, he’d had a sturdier build than all the others. He looked as if he would have been the life and soul of the party, always inviting people – friends and strangers alike – back to his rooms. It was likely, of course, that he would have done that to fit in with a class of people very different to his own.
Recalling my reason for being there, I sat opposite the Duchess and opened my notebook. We were planning a simple afternoon tea for a group of women who were paying a lot of money to have a tour of some of the private areas of the house with the Duchess. I would make sure there was an almost endless supply of champagne, sandwiches with the crusts removed and cakes so delicately decorated, they would be worthy of going in a display case alongside works of art. Or at least, I knew that was what was expected of me and I would spend the next three weeks working with Ruth, practising until our knuckles cramped and we never wanted to ice another cake in our lives.
‘I love the idea of gin and tonic cupcakes. Would you mind making me some for this weekend? I have a friend staying and I just know she’ll adore them.’
I was pleased the Duchess was so taken with the idea. ‘Absolutely, and if you have any particular requests for the other cakes, please let me know.’
The Duchess considered the question for a moment. ‘I’ll leave that in your hands, Sophie. I have quite a lot on and don’t want to give this event any more thought than absolutely necessary.’
We both turned as the door opened to admit her husband. I stood.
‘Good morning, Duke.’
‘Sit, please, none of that. I just need to collect some papers off my desk. How are you, Sophie?’
‘Well, thank you.’ When I had first met the Duke and Duchess, I had referred to them by the appropriate address of ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Ma’am’, but Mark had quickly put me right. He told me that they were a little more laid back than that, and insisted that staff simply call them Duke or Duchess. It had made me feel part of the ‘inner sanctum’.
‘Where did I put the damned thing?’ As he rooted through a mound of paper on his untidy desk, the Duchess and I finalised a few more aspects of afternoon tea: which kinds of tea would be served; how many choices of coffee; different milk options. We really were catering to all potential requirements.
‘Got it.’ The Duke interrupted our conversation. ‘I swear I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on. Sophie, you often have your ear to the ground. Any updates on the murder of that poor man?’ He perched on the edge of his desk and turned to face me.
‘Nothing substantial that I’m aware of. A lot of dead ends and anyone of interest has an alibi, but I know that DC Greene and his colleagues are working extremely hard.’
‘Oh absolutely, I wouldn’t suggest otherwise, but I do hate loose ends and we’d all like to move on.’
I was confused. ‘I saw you with DI Flynn at the reception on the night of the theft. Hasn’t he been keeping you up to date with events?’
The Duke smiled. ‘Ah yes, your friend the detective inspector. Seems to think that any assistance you gave his team in the past was unnecessary, and feels the same way about current or future cases.’
I glanced down at my hands – was this a warning?
‘Of course, my view is that if anything you did helped speed things along, then you were clearly essential, and I for one don’t have an issue with that. Not that I’d say that to the inspector.’ He had an impish smile on his face. Every time I met the Duke, he gave me another reason to like him. As he seemed talkative and supportive of my curious nature, I took the chance to question him.
‘Is there any more news about your mother’s bowl?’
He sighed deeply. ‘None. My greatest frustration is that it is of absolutely no value to anyone else, so there is no gain from the theft, just the great sense of loss that is left behind. It’s utterly pointless.’
‘So it had to be an opportunist. If anyone knew of its lack of value, they wouldn’t have bothered taking it, I presume?’
I’d meant that to be more rhetorical than it had sounded and I wasn’t sure I’d meant to say it out loud, but the Duke took hold of my thoughts.
‘Are you saying that if there was a chance it was chosen intentionally, then it must have been taken by someone who knew its loss would cause emotional distress?’
I hadn’t actually been saying that; I hadn’t even thought it, but he was onto something and I wanted to build on it.
‘Who knows how much it means to you? I mean, visitors see it all the time and know the history, but don’t necessarily know the sentimental value attached to it.’
‘Only the family, I think. Of course, I often talk fondly of my mother, and there are a lot of items in the house that you could assume I attached a sentimental value to, but I can’t see why anyone other than family would be aware of the additional significance of this piece. I’ve been in touch with various friends in the antiques business and they’re all on the lookout for it. If anyone tries to sell it to a respected dealer, we’ll know about it, so I guess I just have to play a waiting game. Well, on that slightly sombre note, I must be off.’
As he reached the door, he paused and looked over at his wife.
‘Don’t forget, we’re meeting Jeremy and Belinda for cocktails at four. Are you planning on wearing the blue number I saw hanging on the back of the door?’
‘I am.’ The Duchess sounded a little uncertain, as though she expected him to say he didn’t like the dress.
‘Good.’ He smiled and winked at her before heading out of the door. The Duchess laughed and looked at me.
‘He can be such a lad sometimes.’ She paused before adding, ‘I’m very lucky.’
I left the Duchess to her work and thoughts of her young-at-heart husband, keen to talk to Robin, who was still working in the courtyard below. My route took me down a short, narrow staircase with whitewashed walls and plain wooden steps. In the past, it would have been used by servants making their way to their quarters at the end of a long working day.
I appeared from behind a hidden door at the top of an enormous, imposing oak staircase. Every inch of the walls was covered with muskets, bayonets, pistols, swords, daggers and body armour. Early generations of the Fitzwilliam-Scott family had fought for King and Country, this magnificent display a reminder of their role in bloody battles and the fight to win the approval of reigning monarchs. The weapons had been hung like works of art: concentric circles of swords and daggers formed a starburst around a silver chest plate; the crossed muzzles of muskets made blocks of patterns. I briefly considered how the tools of war could be used to create something so beautiful as I passed visitors reading guidebooks or listening intently to their audio guides, and those who were experiencing the house entirely from behind the lens of their camera-phone.
I quickly stepped out of the way as a visitor walked into the centre of the staircase without looking in order to take a selfie. Touching her arm gently, I drew her attention to how close she was to the edge of the step and she smiled gratefully. I didn’t want any Darwin Awards handed out to visitors of Charleton House; not today, anyway.
I found the window that Robin had used to access the courtyard and, in a very unladylike fashion, clambered out to join him.
‘Sophie, let me give you a hand.’ I already had two feet on the ground by the time he reached me. ‘What on earth are you doin’?’
‘I wanted a quick word with you, do you have a minute?’
‘Of course, let’s sit over here in the sunlight. What’s so important that you’re prepared to climb through windows to see me? I
’d be flattered, but I’m a little old to be your type.’
I’d warmed to Robin as soon as I’d met him last summer. He had a slightly old-fashioned way about him, but he was never offensive; more of a gentleman with a cheeky wit.
‘I wanted to ask you about Saturday morning, if you don’t mind. I know the police have spoken to you, but I just want to get something straight in my mind.’
‘Get somethin’ straight in your mind? Are you moonlighting for the police now? Cupcakes and crime, that’s quite a mix.’
‘I know. Technically it’s none of my business. I can’t quite explain why I’m so interested, but I have so many snippets of information coming my way that they end up swimming about my head and I need to make sense of them. It’s a bit like someone has put a load of ingredients down in front of me; I can’t help but wonder what I could make with them, what they’ll look like once I’ve worked out quantities and what order they should be added into the mix.’
I’d never thought of my interest in Ben’s murder in this way before. Sitting in the quiet courtyard with nothing to disturb me but the seemingly genuine interest of a sweet man like Robin made it easier for me to throw some light on why I was digging into motives and alibis; why I was so determined to find out what had happened. My mind instinctively wanted to piece things together, only this time it was a murder, not a meringue or a muffin.
‘You said that on the morning of the murder, you were working with Elliot?’
‘That’s right, we were up near the Rock Garden. I knew the night before that we were on top of everything for the festival, so I’d scheduled in some other jobs for the team until about 9am when we knew the stallholders would start arriving so we needed to be back by the Great Pond and available to help them. Elliot’s rather fond of the Rock Garden so I had him up there with me.’
‘You were up there all morning?’
