“I’m so glad you took my advice, Will,” she was saying while I focussed on freeing my heel without toppling over and making myself look a complete loser. “I promise you, you won’t be disappointed. I was thrilled to find such fine dining in a place like Dintscombe. Wasn’t expecting that at all. Do try the lobster thermidor if it’s on, won’t you? It’s the best I’ve tasted outside of Nathan Outlaw’s. Anyway, I’d better not keep you. The maitre d’ can get very sniffy if you’re late. Don’t forget, you owe me that drink. Another time, eh? Great to meet you, Kat. Bye.”
Will and I walked on in silence. That is to say, he walked, I hobbled as my heel now felt decidedly wonky.
I’d been looking forward to a quiet, stress-free evening with Will, pouring out my worries about Mum, Dad and Tanya over a pint or two, so that he could tell me I was fretting over nothing.
Now it looked as if it was dinner for two, with starched tablecloths, an even starchier maitre d’ and so many knives and forks I wouldn’t know where to start.
Suddenly, the rugby club, and maybe even the kebab shop, seemed very appealing.
***
Michael’s Restaurant was situated in Dintscombe’s only hotel. It was one of the town’s oldest buildings and legend had it that the notorious Judge Jeffreys had stayed there during his search for rebels.
Local wags claimed that the place – and that included the bed linen – hadn’t changed since then. Indeed, the hotel reception was as drab as ever, with its dark panelled walls hung with faded prints of Cheddar Gorge and Glastonbury Tor that had obviously come from the same closing down sale as the ones in the Winchmoor Arms.
But, according to the advertising feature they’d run in The Chronicle a few weeks ago (and, no, I hadn’t had the chance to write it, more’s the pity), the room that used to be a rather soulless hotel dining room, with two long rows of tables set out like a school canteen, had had a makeover.
Before we could find out for ourselves, the starchy maitre d’, who was even starchier than I’d expected, glided across to us. He looked us up and down as if trying to find a reason to refuse us entry.
“You have a reservation?” He peered down his long, hooked nose at us and made me wish I hadn’t washed off the temporary tattoo. Just to see if his eyebrows would reach what used to be his hairline.
“Will Manning, table for two, 7.30pm,” Will said.
“Would Sir like an aperitif in the bar while you peruse the menus?” he asked, never once casting a glance in my direction.
“Madam would like…” I began, but Will beat me to it.
“Two gins and tonics, please,” he said, as the maitre d’ pointed his long bony nose skywards, like a trail hound who’d just caught the scent, and invited us to follow him.
“The barman will be with you shortly,” he announced, before he and his nose left us to it and he slithered off to ‘welcome’ more guests.
The made-over dining room was broken up by huge, floor-standing pots of foliage. A corner had been partitioned off by yet more foliage to create a small bar, in exactly the same way Mum had used pots of artificial geraniums to mark out her reception area.
The bar’s spindly chrome chairs were no more comfortable than Mum’s, although they didn’t wobble. Instead of dog eared copies of Hello! each chrome and smoked glass table held a large dark blue leather-bound book embossed with silver which, it turned out, was the menu. It was the size of a telephone directory and looked more like a royal proclamation than a bill of fare.
The other thing the bar had in common with Mum’s reception area was that the tables were packed so tightly together it was almost impossible not to include the people on the next table in your conversation, whether you wanted to or not. Elsie Flintlock would have loved it.
As Will went up to the bar I glanced across and smiled at the woman at the next table. She wore a long beige dress, a string of pearls around her neck and her pale golden hair was neatly coiled in a bun at the base of her neck.
“Good evening, Mrs Crabshaw,” I said.
With the air of a startled fawn, Fiona Crabshaw looked up from the menu she’d been studying so intently. She gave me a puzzled stare, as if trying to place where she’d seen me before.
“It’s Kat,” I said. “Cheryl’s daughter. From the salon. Much Winchmoor.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me. I was miles away.” Her soft voice had a frosty edge that told me she’d known exactly who I was but still hadn’t forgiven me for my inappropriate comment about the parish council election.
She gave a flicker of a smile that did not reach those lime marmalade eyes and went back to her menu.
I don’t know why I did what I did next. I’ve thought about it a lot since. And I can only say, in my defence, that I was feeling rattled. By the starchy maitre d’ and his even starchier restaurant. By the fact that, as we’d made our way to the ‘bar,’ I’d had a quick glance at the dining room and my worst fears were confirmed.
It was, indeed, all starched tablecloths, sparkling glassware and so much cutlery it looked the homeware department of Harrods.
This came hard on the heels of my encounter with tiny, dainty gentlemen-(even-farmers)-prefer-blondes Anna. Will’s muttered, “You look, um, good,” was erased from my memory bank by the look in his eyes when he saw her. And I couldn’t get Elsie’s dig about pretty young vets out of my mind.
So, I wasn’t really thinking straight when I looked across at Fiona Crabshaw as she pored over her menu. In a bid to distract myself from pretty young vets, I did what I always do when under stress. I said the first thing that came into my head.
“Did you know the police now think Margot was killed some time on Tuesday night?” Elsie had delivered that particular nugget of information yesterday morning with all the relish of a conjuror producing a bunch of paper flowers out of a rabbit’s ear.
Fiona’s pale face went several shades paler.
“No. No, I didn’t,” she said and went back to her menu. It was, as I said, a very long menu.
“Apparently, they’ve let Abe Compton go because he had an alibi for Tuesday night,” I went on. “So that means they’re questioning everyone as to their whereabouts then.”
“Oh, really?” she said faintly, “That’s good news about Abe Compton. His wife must be very relieved.”
“She is, of course. But the thing is,” I went on, “If it wasn’t Abe, then who was it?”
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine. But I think these things are best left to the police, don’t you?”
“Of course. They’ll probably do a house-to-house of the entire village now, asking everyone where they were at the time.”
“Probably.”
“So, tell me then, Mrs Crabshaw, where were you on Tuesday night? I hope you and your husband have got your alibis sorted.”
She stared at me, her eyes wide with horror. Then she looked across at her husband, who was leaning against the bar, talking to Will and the barman.
“Gerald. Please!” she said in what was for her a very loud voice.
“What is it?” he asked. There was a hint of impatience in his voice until he turned, saw me and glared. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I lifted my chin. Gerald Crabshaw and I had crossed swords many times before and I was not going to be intimidated by his bullying tone.
“Having dinner. The same as you, I imagine,” I said with quiet dignity.
“Gerald.” Fiona darted an anxious look at him, her voice low. “She’s just told me the police have let Abe Compton go. And that they’re going around the village asking everyone where they were when Margot was killed. Gerald, she asked me if you and I had an alibi for that night.”
Gruesome Gerald’s face went the colour of the rare venison loin that was, according to page twenty-three of the menu, chef Michael’s signature dish. He stalked across the tiny bar and halted in front of me. He was breathing so hard, I quite expected to see steam coming out of his nostrils.
�
��How dare you upset my wife like that?” he hissed.
Behind him, Will asked, “Katie? What’s going on?”
I closed the menu, replaced it on the tiny chrome and glass table and stood up.
“I’ve decided I don’t want to eat here after all, Will. Shall we go?”
Chapter Ten
I stalked out without waiting for Will, and was half way down the High Street before he caught up with me.
“What the hell was all that about?” He held my arm and pulled me around to face him. “What’s got into you tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I wish you’d said where we were going. I really don’t like that sort of place, Will. I’ve had a hell of a couple of days and just wanted to go somewhere quiet and relaxed where we could have a chat. Not sit there fussing over which knife and fork went with what and having to get my French dictionary out to translate the menu. Nor do I like the idea of you having to mortgage the farm to pay the bill. Did you see the prices?”
He grimaced. “The G and Ts were so expensive, I actually asked the barman if he’d made a mistake. I’m sorry, though. I thought you’d like somewhere a bit more sophisticated than the rugby club.”
“Well, yes, I would. But let’s face it, almost every pub in town passes that criterion. That place was so up itself. As for that maitre d’…”
He laughed and we began to walk on, his hand still on my arm. “He was a bit much, wasn’t he?”
“He was a lot much.”
“But what did you do to upset Gerald Crabshaw? One minute he’s talking to me about the rugby international, the next he’s snorting like a riled-up bull.”
“You know Gerald,” I said vaguely. “He’s only got to look at me and his blood pressure goes off the scale.”
“Come on, then,” he said as we were walking past the Red Lion. “Will this do for you, Madam?”
“Yes please,” I said. We settled for a table in the corner by the fireplace where a real log fire hissed and crackled in the grate. As Will went up for the drinks, I leaned back in the comfortable old chair, stretched my legs towards the fire and watched showers of sparks spiral up into the darkness of the wide chimney. As I did so, the tight knot of tension in my neck and shoulders slowly began to unravel.
“So, come on, spill,” Will said as he came back with a couple of drinks and a menu that was just one page long. And in English.
“How do you mean?”
“You’re wound up like a coiled spring. What’s wrong?”
It felt so good to be able to tell him about the atmosphere at home.
“But things should improve now that Tanya’s moved out, surely?” he said when I’d finally talked myself to a standstill.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But if anything it’s worse. She’s talking about setting up in business against Mum.”
“Where?”
“In Much Winchmoor, she reckons. Says she’s already got her finances in place.”
“Much Winchmoor?” Will laughed. “That’s not going to work, is it?”
“It’s not just that.” I told him how the only way Mum and Dad were talking was through me.
“It’s doing my head in, Will,” I sighed as we both tucked into Doreen’s Saturday special with relish. You could keep chef Michael’s lobster thermidor. Doreen’s steak and mushroom pie, with its crisp, buttery pastry and rich, dark gravy was the food of the gods. Especially after Mum’s tofu and sesame soba noodles.
“There’s one way out of that,” he said, as he pinched a chip off my plate and used it to mop up the last of his gravy.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Well, you could move in with me.” He held my gaze for a second then looked down at my plate. “Are you going to finish the rest of those chips?”
I shook my head and stared at him, unsure what he meant or how to answer him.
The only thing I was sure of was that, if ever I did move in with Will, or anyone, it would be because we loved each other and were ready to move our relationship on to another level.
It wouldn’t be as a matter of convenience. Or because I wanted to get away from my warring parents.
“Well? What do you think?” Will was still happily munching his way through my chips, which was just as well because if I’d tried to eat them now, they’d have tasted like sawdust, even though a few minutes earlier they’d been heavenly.
Did I get that wrong? Had Will just asked me to move in with him? Or was he simply offering me a place to doss down, like any mate would?
“Have you and your dad let the washing up pile up again, then?” I joked. “Besides, someone had better stay at home and play referee between my parents. Otherwise there’s going to be another murder in the village.”
Will stared at me. It was as if a shutter had just come down behind his eyes.
***
Although it was great to be back in my own bed, and my own room, sleep didn’t come easily that night after Will had dropped me off. There was just a casual peck on the cheek and a ‘see you,’ before he hurried off to count his sheep. Or whatever farmers do to get to sleep.
Was it my fault he’d gone all cool on me? He’d been as relieved as I was to leave the starchy restaurant (especially when he realised he’d have to sell a tractor or two to pay the bill) and things were fine until he suggested I move in with him and his dad.
But it wasn’t a serious attempt on his part to take our relationship – if that’s what we did have going – to the next level, was it? After all, earlier on in the evening, I’d been wondering if he fancied the pretty blonde vet.
I assumed he was just being a mate and that he felt sorry for me, caught in the crossfire of marital meltdown. When we were kids I often stayed over at his house, sleeping in the little attic bedroom with its tiny windows and sloping ceilings. That was what he meant, wasn’t it?
So it was ok to answer him with a laugh, surely? It wasn’t as if it was a serious question.
Once I’d reached that conclusion, sleep came a bit easier and eventually I drifted off, waking up too late for my usual pre-breakfast run.
“How did it go last night?” Mum asked as I wandered into the kitchen, still groggy from my restless night.
“Good, thanks.” I gave information to my mother strictly on a need-to-know basis. Although I couldn’t help wondering what she’d say if I went on: “Will asked me to move in with him and I laughed at him. Oh yes, and I upset Gerald and Fiona Crabshaw by asking them if they had an alibi for the night Margot was killed. But, apart from that, it was great.”
Mum was standing at the cooker, Dad was at the table, pretending to be interested in reading the report of last month’s Women’s Institute meeting in the parish magazine.
I’d hoped that an evening on their own last night, without the excitement of Eurovision, would have given them a chance to clear the air a bit.
“I’m making scrambled eggs, if you want some?” she went on.
“Yes, please,” Dad and I chorused in unison.
She cracked another couple of eggs into the pan. But when she’d cooked them, she served them up on two plates. One for me. One for her.
Obviously no clearing of the air last night, then. Mind you, Dad wasn’t missing anything. Only my mum could scramble a few eggs and turn them into something you could use to fill the cracks in the living room ceiling.
I took a deep breath. “Mum? Dad? Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
But before either of them could answer – or, judging from their mulish expressions, refuse to answer – there was a sharp rap on the back door.
Uncle Richard stood there, worry lines scoring deep furrows in his narrow face.
“I’ve come to see Tanya,” he announced, rocking back on his heels slightly as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his immaculate grey flannel trousers and jingled his loose change.
Mum and Dad stared at each other, each waiting for the other to say something. I reckon they’d have sti
ll been there now if I hadn’t stepped in and broken the tense silence.
“She’s not here, Uncle Richard,” I said.
He stopped jingling and swore in a very un-Uncle Richard like way. He took his hands out of his pockets and clasped them together so hard his knuckles cracked. For one crazy moment, I could almost see those long, bony fingers closing around Tanya’s neck. I shuddered and pushed the thought aside.
“You’d better come in,” I said. “Would you like some tea?”
He shook his head without glancing in my direction. His attention was one hundred per cent focussed on Mum.
“She’s with him, isn’t she? I should have known.” His usually soft voice was brittle, edgy. “Come on, you might as well tell me the truth. She told me she was coming to stay with you for a bit and when I spoke to you on the phone, you confirmed that. So have you been covering for her again, Cheryl?”
Mum flushed. “Of course I haven’t. She was here when you phoned the other day. But since then, we – well, if you must know, we had a bit of a disagreement.” She shot Dad a look that would have boiled oil. “And she left.”
“Do you know where? If she’s gone back to him— ”
“No. I don’t. She just came back yesterday afternoon, grabbed her suitcases and drove off without a word. Not even a ‘thank you for putting me up.’”
“That sounds like my wife,” Richard muttered.
“And who’s this ‘him’ you’re talking about?” Mum went on. “Tanya didn’t say anything about there being another man. She said she’d left you because—”
She stopped, looked down at her scrambled eggs, then pushed the plate away with a sigh.
Dad cleared his throat, more than willing to take over where Mum had left off.
“She said she’d left you because you threatened her with violence.” He looked accusingly at his brother. “How could you do that?”
“Me?” Richard’s voice rose to a reedy squeak. “She said I was the one who threatened her? And you believed her?”
Dad and his brother stared at each other across the kitchen table. I’d never thought they looked a bit alike. Uncle Richard was tall and thin, with a faint stoop and neat, swept-back hair. Dad was short, with a beer belly that spilled out over the top of his trousers like a badly-set panna cotta, a round face and a shiny bald head that glowed like a bright red beacon when he’d been on Abe Compton’s cider.
Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2) Page 10
