She patted his cheek. “Go and sit down, young man, and I’ll bring it to you. On the house. Thank goodness you still appreciate good food and don’t want any of that vegan muck. William! A pint of Brew for Alfie, and don’t charge him.”
She pattered off towards the kitchen.
Alfie, embarrassed, went up to the bar, and took out his wallet.
“You heard the lady, your money’s no good round here,” William said as he pulled the pint. “Glad to see you. It’s been a nightmare since Carlotta turned vegan. The pair of them are at one another’s throats. You don’t know how lucky you are, single man living on his own. Nobody hassling you, nobody yelling: ‘William! Come and see what she’s done now!’”
“Have you thought of joining the Foreign Legion?” said Alfie sympathetically.
“All the time, mate. All the time.”
William handed over the pint, and Alfie headed for his customary booth at the back of the pub. The beer was as good as he remembered. He savoured it and sat waiting for Emma.
She had begun to explain the saga of the fudge in Liz and Marge’s, but Liz had promptly burst into tears again, and Emma had hustled him out.
“Meet you in the Horse at lunchtime,” she said as she showed him the door. “I’ll explain it all properly then.”
It was practically lunchtime anyway, and he was starving after his paltry breakfast. He’d driven round to Windermere Cottage, surprising himself by how excited he felt to see the old place, the door as purple as ever, the carriage lights gleaming in the sunshine.
He didn’t yet yield to the pleasure of going inside, but simply parked the car in the lane and walked to the Horse.
Now, settled in the pub with his pint, he tried to grasp what Emma had been saying before he was ejected. There had been a wedding yesterday, presumably the wedding Liz and Marge had been talking about. Everyone had been struck down by food poisoning.
Sergeant Wilson had taken malicious delight in informing Liz and Marge that everything the guests had eaten would be investigated by environmental health. Including the fudge. He instructed them to stop production immediately and await an inspector. And he warned them if there had been the slightest infraction, the business would be closed down for good.
“Here you are,” said Edith cheerfully, approaching with a laden tray. She offloaded a plate of roast beef, roast potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, peas, carrots and two Yorkshire puddings, followed by sauce boats of gravy and horseradish sauce.
“Edith, I’ve no idea how I managed to stay away for so long,” said Alfie, his mouth watering.
The door of the Horse opened and Emma came in. Alfie waved across the bar to her.
“Emma’s joining me,” he explained to Edith.
“First day back and meeting other women already?” she sniffed. “That girlfriend of yours had better start paddling faster. And the free lunch only applies to you.”
Emma, oblivious, came over and sat down at Alfie’s table.
“I’ll give you a couple of minutes to look at the menu,” said Edith.
“No need,” said Emma. “I’ve had a look at Alfie’s plate. I’ll have what he’s having. And a half of Brew.”
“Right away,” said Edith. “Oh, and have you heard about the fun and games at the wedding yesterday?”
Emma, with a fixed smile on her face, said: “Yes, amazing,” and leaned forward to pick up one of the Yorkshire puddings.
Edith smacked her hand away. “Leave that alone, Miss! Poor Alfie needs feeding up. I’ll bring yours in a minute.”
Alfie stared after Edith in astonishment. She could be lacking in tact, but she wasn’t malicious. Why on earth would she bring up the topic of the food poisoning, which could threaten Liz and Marge’s business, in such a casual way? Alfie would have expected her to be sympathetic, and ask Emma how the ladies were bearing up.
Emma showed no sign of making another assault on the Yorkshire puddings, and Alfie realised she had been diverting Edith’s attention from the wedding. He had been shocked to see the ladies’ distress, but now he was intrigued as well.
“So this wedding, what exactly happened?” he asked.
“I’ve asked an old school friend to join us,” said Emma crisply. “Olivia. She was the chief bridesmaid yesterday. I’m going to have a chat with her, and I just want you to sit and listen.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Alfie.
She turned cool brown eyes on him. “This is important. Now, what do else you need to know? Not much – the bride’s name is Heather, she was at school with us as well. The groom’s Greg, also at school with us in the year above. His family’s loaded, they live in a huge house on the way to Witney. The wedding was at the church here, the wedding breakfast was at Greg’s parents’ place. Got all that?”
He was tempted to say: “Why, will there be a quiz?” but sensed that her curtness stemmed from anxiety.
“Got it,” he said.
The door of the Horse opened again. As the newcomer scanned the pub uncertainly, Emma stood up and called to her.
“Hey, Olivia! Over here.”
The young woman was slim. Too slim, Alfie decided. She looked as though she could be blown away in a high wind. Her shoulder-length hair was in intricate ringlets, which he guessed had been done specially for the wedding. As she got closer, he saw her mascara-ringed eyes were red and puffy, as though she had been crying. Not another one.
The two women hugged one another, each exclaiming how fabulous the other looked and how they hadn’t changed a bit. Alfie tried to imagine doing this with Oscar, and failed.
“What is it, two years since I saw you?” said Olivia.
Emma pondered. “Nearer three.”
“Awful,” said Olivia. Her lower lip trembled. Please don’t cry, thought Alfie.
She covered her face in her hands and he could just make out: “Oh, Emma, the whole thing’s been dreadful.”
Emma gave her another hug. “It must have been. Come and sit down, and tell me all about it.”
She drew her friend towards a chair, and for the first time, Olivia noticed Alfie, who was standing politely, waiting to be introduced.
Emma gestured towards him. “This is my friend Alfie.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Olivia with unmistakable interest, extending a limp hand, her long fingernails decorated with glittery patterns. “Sorry – I’m a bit upset. It’s really lovely to meet you, Alfie.”
“He’s just a friend,” said Emma impatiently. “Not a boyfriend or anything.”
Alfie felt thoroughly rebuffed.
“No, not even an anything,” he said. “Good to meet you too, Olivia.”
Edith bustled over with Emma’s half-pint and Sunday roast, which Alfie noted had only one Yorkshire pudding. “And another one for lunch? What can I get you?”
“Oh no,” said Olivia. “No lunch. Just tap water for me.”
Emma looked at her keenly. “Have you had breakfast?”
Olivia shook her head. “It was all a bit disorganized this morning.”
“You’ve got to have something.” Emma picked up the menu and handed it to her friend. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Olivia opened it without enthusiasm and then brightened. “Oh, you’ve got vegan options. I’ll have the sweet potato and miso soup.” She turned to Edith. “You know what would be a good idea? Putting the calorie count beside all the dishes.”
Edith didn’t look as though she thought it was a good idea at all.
“Edith, I’ve nearly finished the gravy – I wonder if I could have some more?” said Alfie quickly.
She stalked away, muttering.
“Poor Heather,” said Emma. “Her wedding day totally ruined.”
“And she had planned every second of it so that it would be perfect,” said Olivia. “To tell you t
he truth, she was a little bit of a bridezilla, and her mum was even worse.”
“That must have been difficult for you,” said Emma sympathetically.
Olivia gave a small laugh. “It was all right. I just did what I was told, and accepted that ‘chief bridesmaid’ meant ‘gofer’.”
Emma gave her a complicit grin. “I want to hear everything. First and most important, what was your dress like?”
Olivia sighed. “It was gorgeous – very simple, very classic. Pink silk, with appliquéd silk cotton lace at the neck and shoulders.”
“Wonderful,” breathed Emma. “And your hair’s fabulous. You must have looked amazing.”
Alfie glanced at her. He had only ever seen her in her police uniform, or dressed casually, and hadn’t thought she would be into bridal fashion. Of course, it wasn’t a topic he’d discussed with her. A lot of women seemed to get obsessive about weddings.
“Tell me about Heather’s dress - and how did you get to the church? I hope it was a horse and carriage,” said Emma.
Alfie zoned out and concentrated on the beef, which was every bit as delicious as he remembered. The potatoes were roasted to perfection, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. And the Yorkshire puddings were airy and melt-in-the-mouth.
He suddenly realised that the word “fudge” had been mentioned.
“Heather had organised drinks and fudge at the church, directly after the service, so that people would have something to do while the photographer and the videographer were doing their thing.”
“Fudge?” asked Emma innocently.
“It’s the in thing now, according to Heather. She heard that the Saviles served it to all the film stars at that amazing party they had.”
Olivia saw Alfie looking at her and said: “David and Rosemary Savile were at the wedding – they’re terribly rich. They have a grand country house which is where Pride and Prejudice was filmed. The one starring Dorian Stevens.”
“Dorian Stevens is totally gorgeous,” sighed Emma.
“He so is,” agreed Olivia. “The Saviles threw a massive party after the film was made, and everybody adored the local fudge, and now all the stars order it too.”
Alfie considered saying: “I know, I was at the party. There wasn’t only fudge, there were ice sculptures, and Japanese fireworks, and a dead body,” but contented himself with nodding.
Emma nodded too, rather than saying: “It’s my Great-aunt Liz who makes the fudge.”
But she did say: “Where on earth did you have that? Were you all packed into the vestry?”
Olivia laughed a little patronisingly. “There were far too many of us to fit into the vestry. No, Heather persuaded the vicar to let her put up a sweet little marquee round the side of the church where it wouldn’t show up in the photos.”
“I can see why you’d want to hide it,” said Emma. “Fudge isn’t exactly photogenic.”
“Oh, but it was,” said Olivia. “It was on tiered silver stands decorated with pink and yellow roses, just like Heather’s bouquet. And the drinks were set out between the stands, strawberry rosé punch and lemon Champagne punch to match the flowers. Alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions, of course.”
“Of course,” said Emma. “I can see Heather thought of everything.”
“Micro-management,” said Olivia. “Half the time she was checking up on things herself, and the other half, she was checking up on me doing it for her.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Emma. “The chief bridesmaid’s got enough to do without supervising drinks and nibbles.”
“You know what she’s like,” said Olivia.
“Oh yes,” said Emma, and they both laughed. “I suppose the photographs took hours.”
“Hours. Heather and Greg, Heather and Greg and the bridesmaids, Heather and Greg and the parents, Heather and Greg and the bridesmaids and the parents. Greg’s grandfather was there, in a wheelchair, and there was a shot of everyone toasting the bride while she knelt down beside him with one of the salvers of fudge and fed him a piece.”
Suddenly, Olivia’s face crumpled. She started to cry. Alfie wondered whether he should produce a handkerchief, but Emma already had her arms round her friend and was making soothing noises.
Edith turned up at this moment with the soup and gave Alfie a look that seemed to say: “What’s the matter with her?”
Alfie shrugged, so Edith put the soup on the table and went away.
“He was so ill,” sobbed Olivia. “They had to call an ambulance.”
“What happened?” asked Emma. “Tell me.”
But Olivia stood up, pushing her chair back. “I have to go,” she choked. “Greg’s in such a state, and so’s Heather. I told her I wouldn’t be long.”
She grabbed her bag and dashed out of the pub.
Emma looked heavenwards. “That went well.”
“What’s going on?” demanded Edith, coming back to the table.
“She took one look at the vegan soup and ran for it. Can you blame her?” said Alfie, eliciting a loud cackle from Edith.
“She was the chief bridesmaid at the wedding yesterday,” said Emma. “She’s a bit upset about it all.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Edith. “What a palaver. Old Morgan Sutcliffe got taken away in an ambulance, you know.”
“What?” said Alfie, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t know that.”
Edith turned round and signalled to the young woman behind the bar. “Joanne! I’m taking five minutes. Keep an eye on the lunches.”
“Will do,” Joanne called back.
Edith sat down in Olivia’s vacant seat and leaned forward confidentially. “I heard it all from Elsie – her grand-daughter was working for the caterers. Reckons they’ll be closed down. And if Morgan dies, they’ll be done for murder.”
“No, they - ” Emma began but was silenced by a tap on the leg from Alfie’s Italian leather loafer. She glared at him, but he didn’t want anything to distract or annoy Edith.
“It was a big do at the groom’s family house, or rather in a marquee in the garden,” Edith went on. “Elsie’s grand-daughter was working for the caterers and said she’d never known anything like. No expense spared. A sit-down lunch after the wedding ceremony, with all the speeches, Champagne for the toasts, and then in the afternoon, tea and cucumber sandwiches like the Queen has, with no crusts, and a harpist playing, and then a full-scale dinner and dancing to a live band. Except -”
She leaned even closer and lowered her voice. “It got cancelled. The harpist was in the middle of I Could Be Happy With You when they all started dropping like flies. Poisoned.”
Alfie exclaimed in shock, since this seemed to be what Edith expected. She patted his hand. “I don’t mean like the Borgias. It’s not a case for the Bunburry Triangle. Food poisoning from the lunch. Elsie’s grand-daughter said she’d never seen such a mess.”
“Oh dear,” said Alfie. “Being sick is never good.”
“No, they weren’t sick,” said Edith with relish.
“I thought you said they had food poisoning?”
“Yes, but they weren’t sick.”
“But – oh.” Alfie took in the implication of her words.
“And Elsie’s grand-daughter said there were only half a dozen portaloos in the garden. Posh portaloos, mind, with proper soap, and flowers in vases. There were people dashing for the portaloos, people dashing into the house – Elsie’s grand-daughter said some people just headed for the bushes.”
She had to be stopped before she went into more detail. Alfie was about to speak when Emma said: “Bridesmaids.”
“Yes, bridesmaids, bride, best man, everyone,” said Edith.
“I mean the film, Bridesmaids. It’s an American comedy. There’s a hen party that goes wrong, and they all get the trots, and they’re not near a loo.”
&
nbsp; “A comedy?” said Edith. “That’s the sort of thing Americans find funny, is it?”
“Maybe you have to see it,” said Emma.
“I don’t think I’ll bother,” said Edith.
It didn’t quite add up. “You said everyone was affected,” said Alfie. “But Olivia seemed okay. She didn’t say she’d been ill.”
“Not everyone,” said Edith, a little testily. “Let me think. What did Elsie’s grand-daughter tell her? The groom was fine. The mother of the bride was fine. When I say fine, she went completely hysterical and phoned Harold Wilson to come and arrest whoever was responsible for ruining the wedding.”
Alfie and Emma exchanged startled looks.
“I think a couple of others were fine as well. But that’s not important,” Edith said. “I was telling you about the groom’s grandad, Morgan Sutcliffe – he was a big noise on the council years ago, not that you two are old enough to remember that. Morgan was a Bunburry boy who got too grand for all of us. Not a nice man. The things I could tell you - ”
She stopped abruptly. “Anyway, all that high living’s caught up with him. Elsie says he’s been in poor health for a long time, and she doesn’t think he’ll pull through.”
“Dreadful,” said Alfie. “What do you think gave them food poisoning?”
Edith considered. “Elsie recited the whole menu to me. What was lunch and what was dinner? Oh yes, lunch was smoked salmon to start with, or chicken liver pâté, and the main course was venison or pork. They had some vegetarian options as well for the people who don’t appreciate good food.”
She looked balefully at Olivia’s untouched soup bowl.
“And the pudding was cheesecake or fruit salad.”
There was a sudden crash. Joanne had dropped a plate.
“For pity’s sake, girl!” Edith sprang up and went to sort things out.
“Thank goodness,” said Alfie. “At least Edith doesn’t suspect the fudge.”
4. A Walk with Emma
Emma, her hands thrust into her jacket pocket, her head down, was striding ahead. Up the hill towards Wildshaw Woods.
Alfie’s walking boots were still in Windermere Cottage where he had left them three months ago. His fine Italian loafers were feeling the strain. And it wasn’t just the loafers.
Bunburry--Sweet Revenge Page 3
