by Joyce Cato
‘And the sponges were left to cool in here … when?’ Jason asked, checking his notes.
The chef shrugged. ‘I baked them late yesterday morning – sponges need to be fresh. I didn’t start to construct the gateau itself until nearly …’ he gave it some thought, ‘three o’clock? I like the finished articles to be refrigerated for a few hours. It helps things set, and it improves the flavour of the Cointreau liqueur I use to make the cream.’
Jason ignored all the culinary tips. ‘So, between say, eleven-thirty and three o’clock, anyone could have come in,’ he looked around, expecting to see (and finding) a second entrance to the room, ‘that door there, and added a peanut glaze to one of the sponges? And no-one working in the kitchens need necessarily have known about it?’
Flora walked to the door in question and looked out. ‘There’s a small corridor that must lead back to the main hall, sir,’ she said. ‘I can hear the woman on reception talking on the phone.’
Jason nodded. OK. So how hard would it be for a guest to explore and learn the layout of the kitchen? Not hard, surely? ‘Would the Cointreau cream disguise the taste of the peanuts?’ he asked, then added wryly, ‘from anyone, that is, who didn’t have your superbly well-trained palate?’
The chef considered, then nodded. ‘Yes. Probably.’
It’s looking more and more like murder, Jason thought grimly. And once again he remembered the hard, sharp, almost fearful voice of Monica Noble as she’d asked him what he was doing here. He was beginning not to like this set-up. Not like it at all.
He nodded at the chef and left the kitchens, walking slowly down the corridor and out into the hall. There he paused, thinking hard.
‘Sir,’ Flora said urgently. Jason knew that she wanted action, and understood her keenness. Murder investigations were always more exciting than death by misadventure.
‘Call in the team,’ Jason said heavily. ‘Get those samples off to the lab, and tell the chief we’re going to need help. There’s something upwards of fifty-odd people at this conference, and we’re going to have to interview them all.’
‘Sir,’ Flora said, and sprinted back to the car to use the radio.
Aware of the noise level coming from the long set of French windows to his right, he glanced briefly into the crowded dining hall, feeling his spirits sag. So many people! And one of them must have wanted Celia Gordon dead.
He withdrew, trying to get a handle on how best to tackle the logistics of the thing. He saw that the lounge door was partly open, and through it, glimpsed a pair of lovely legs that he instantly recognized. He walked quickly forward and pushed on through. Monica and Graham Noble looked up from their armchairs, arranged around a low coffee table. Graham rose to his feet. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said amiably.
‘Reverend Noble,’ Jason said.
‘Graham, please.’
‘Graham,’ Jason repeated, not at all sure that he wanted to call the man Graham. He had a nasty feeling that he was going to need to keep himself as aloof as possible from the Nobles whilst investigating this particular case. ‘Are you a guest here?’ he asked, trying to get a picture of the set-up. Surely the Nobles hadn’t moved out of their flat in the village?
Quickly, Graham filled him in on what he was doing there.
‘So you were here all day yesterday?’ Jason asked promptly. Remembering how useful an eyewitness the vicar had proved to be in the past, he was aware of a certain amount of relief. If he could get a solid grasp of the background before the main thrust of the investigation began, he’d at least have some sort of a starting point.
Because this was a very curious case of murder – if murder it was. A peanut for a murder weapon! A cake as a means of death. And a killing that took place under the noses of fifty-odd Church people. The media were going to have a field day. He could almost picture his Chief Superintendent holding his head in his hands and groaning.
‘Everyone’s on their way sir,’ Flora had returned from the car just in time to see her boss disappearing into the lounge. The samples were locked in the car awaiting collection, and she was not best pleased to note the room’s only other occupants.
She smiled briefly at Graham Noble. ‘Reverend,’ and, her tone dropping several degrees, added, ‘Mrs Noble’.
‘Hello Sergeant Glenn,’ Monica mumbled. ‘Jason, what’s going on?’ she blurted the same question again.
Jason, of course, had no intention of telling her. ‘Perhaps, Reverend Noble, you can go through yesterday’s timetable with me. Just to give me a general idea of what’s what?’
Graham took a moment to arrange his thoughts and did his best. ‘Well, I arrived here in time for lunch,’ he began, and went on to describe the lunch, the impromptu lecture Dr Grade had given some of them about the manuscript afterwards, and then about his meeting Celia again. At this point, Jason interrupted him.
‘You knew the Reverend Gordon, Reverend Noble?’ he asked, something sharp and surprised in his voice making Monica, who’d been watching her husband fondly, glance sharply up at the policeman.
‘A long time ago, Chief Inspector,’ Graham said calmly. ‘It had been … nearly twenty-five years I should think, since I last saw her. That was when I’d been sent to a parish up north. Yesterday was the first time I’d seen her since.’
Jason felt, for some strange reason, relieved. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Carry on. What then?’
‘Then it was time for my lecture. I was nervous,’ Graham briefly described it. ‘It seemed to go well. Then I went home. Monica and I changed for dinner at about seven, and then walked back here.’
Monica had sat very still throughout this recital with her eyes cast down. Obviously, he’d forgotten that he had had a bag of peanuts with him just before the lecture, and wondered, suddenly, what had become of it. Graham, oblivious to her worried thoughts, was now describing the dinner to Jason, trying to remember anything of importance, but failing. ‘Really, it was just the usual dinner chit-chat,’ he apologized. ‘And then, during dessert, Celia just suddenly … collapsed. Without any warning.’
Jason nodded. ‘I know this isn’t going to be pleasant, but can you describe exactly what happened?’
Graham took a deep breath and did so, tight-lipped, his eyes looking haunted. ‘Then the party broke up – well, naturally it would,’ he concluded grimly. ‘A lot of the others went to the bar, no doubt in need of a stiff drink, but Monica wanted to go home, so we did. My bishop called me in the early hours to tell me that Celia was dead,’ he finished.
‘And do you know of anyone with a grudge against the Reverend Gordon?’
‘Really, I couldn’t say, Chief Inspector. Her parish was in Bath, I believe. You’d be better off speaking to the people down there about that.’
Jason nodded. ‘We’ll certainly be doing that,’ he agreed. ‘But was there anybody here at the conference that she spoke of in particular? Did she mention anybody that she was having trouble with?’
‘Not to me, no,’ Graham said cautiously. ‘But then, apart from the short conversation just before the lecture and one or two words over dinner, I never really spoke to her,’ Graham said firmly.
Flora lifted her head at that. There seemed to be something more in the vicar’s voice than the words themselves called for. And, she noticed with a quickening of interest, Graham Noble was looking not at Jason as he spoke, but at his wife.
Jason too, picked up on the hidden tension, but couldn’t quite place it.
Monica, distracted, was still thinking nervously about peanuts. About Celia being allergic to them. And about her husband eating peanuts and offering them around during the impromptu talk about the manuscript. She opened her mouth to tell Jason about this, then caught Flora Glenn’s eagle eye on her and for some reason the words died in her throat. Later, she thought guiltily. When he’s alone. I’ll tell him about it then.
‘I see. And what can you tell me about any of the others at the conference?’ Jason probed relentlessly.
�
�I don’t know anyone here, really, apart from my own bishop – Dr Carew. I know Bishop Arthur Bryce by reputation. But that’s really all,’ Graham answered, and shrugged helplessly.
No help there then, Jason thought sourly. And with so many important personages about, they were going to have to tread carefully. He himself would take all the ‘notables’ and leave the others to the uniformed teams. At least for the preliminary interviews. But damn it, why did a vicar get murdered at a conference of other vicars? It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have thought that clerics were the murdering sort. Well, not in this century, anyway.
‘Did you know that Celia Gordon was allergic to peanuts, sir?’ Flora asked abruptly.
Graham blinked and looked at her guilelessly. ‘No. I’d no idea,’ he said truthfully.
Jason smiled, a mere tug of the lips, but Flora saw it and looked away mutinously.
‘Sir Andrew Courtenay owns this place, doesn’t he?’ Jason judged it wise to try another tack.
‘Yes,’ Graham said. ‘He’s done a splendid job of it too. When he inherited the manor from his father, it was going downhill fast. But he’s managed to make it pay for itself in a remarkably short time.’
‘And did the village a big favour in doing so,’ Monica put in, a note of warning in her voice. ‘He’s the biggest employer around here and he subsidizes the shop.’
Jason nodded. He understood the warning all right, but he had no intention of stepping on the squire’s toes, unless it became necessary. ‘I see. I’ll need to speak to him at some point.’
‘Please be careful,’ Monica said quickly, then catching his curious look, sighed heavily.
‘He lost his only child, a daughter, just this February,’ she said sadly. ‘In rather … tragic … circumstances. He’s still very fragile at the moment.’
Jason nodded with sudden comprehension. So that’s why the chef had dealt with everything himself this morning, and didn’t pass the buck. Obviously his staff were still trying to shield Sir Andrew as much as possible. It spoke well of the man. Obviously, he was well liked.
‘In that case, we’ll see him first and get it over with,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry,’ he added, catching Monica’s anxious eye. ‘I’ll keep it brief and to the point.’
CHAPTER 8
It was, in fact, over an hour later before Jason eventually met the hotel-owner. During that time, reinforcements had arrived, together with technicians, and he’d been busy deploying his people. And with the permission of the under-manager, a harassed individual answering to the name of Geoff Banks, setting up the lounge as the resident ‘incident’ room. The food samples had been sent off to the labs, and he’d explained to forensics about the problem with the kitchen.
With breakfast now served to all the guests, the chef had reluctantly cleared the room to make way for the scientific men in white overalls, and several of the conference-goers were wondering why the waiters and kitchen staff were now grouped together on the lawns. Jason was relieved when they all trooped off to the local Church for the Sunday morning service. As far as he knew, no formal announcement had yet been made about the police presence or Celia Gordon’s death, although he wouldn’t be surprised if both circumstances weren’t already common knowledge.
Bad news had a way of travelling fast, even in such saintly circles.
So it was well after ten when, with the desks and equipment set up in the lounge, Sir Andrew Courtenay was shown in. Jason glanced at Flora, who’d gone to fetch him, and saw her frowning slightly, and wondered briefly what had bothered her.
Jason rose. ‘Sir Andrew, I’m Chief Inspector Jason Dury. I’m sorry to have to commandeer your lounge like this, but your under-manager assured me that it would be all right.’
Sir Andrew waved a hand in a vague, conciliatory gesture.
Jason had been half-expecting this man to come blustering in and demanding explanations all morning. After all, no businessman liked the police on their premises. But now that he was face to face with the man, Jason wasn’t quite as surprised any more. Although the thickset squire was dressed in well-cut slacks, a polo shirt and expensive-looking sports jacket, his face was haggard and pale. The big brown eyes looked flat and dull, and as he took a seat, Jason noticed that his hands were trembling visibly. He looked exhausted, and as tense as piano wire.
Flora took a seat at right angles to her boss and took out a notebook and pen.
‘I just need to ask a few questions, Sir Andrew,’ Jason began gently. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard by now of Reverend Gordon’s death?’
Sir Andrew stiffened and his face tightened. He nodded once, briefly. So far he had yet to utter a single syllable, and Jason wondered if Monica Noble hadn’t underestimated the man’s condition. Even to someone like himself, with only a layman’s limited understanding of psychology, the squire looked like a man on the verge of a breakdown.
‘I’ve been told you have suffered a family loss, recently,’ Jason began delicately. ‘I don’t want to add to your burdens, Sir Andrew, so I won’t keep you long.’
Sir Andrew shrugged. He was staring at a point midway on the oriental carpet and his hands, which were resting on his lap, twitched spasmodically.
‘My daughter,’ Sir Andrew suddenly spoke. His voice came out in queer, staccato jerks. ‘She married a bastard. A drug-dealer.’
Flora shifted in her seat and shot her boss a quick, excited look, clearly urging him to follow up on this interesting titbit, but seeing his warning look back, she bit her lip and subsided.
‘Bastard got her hooked on drugs,’ Sir Andrew carried on, in a curious, emotionless monotone. ‘Then he got hold of what they call a “bad batch”. They both died. The neighbours alerted the police and they found them dead, in bed.’
Jason sighed heavily. Even here, in this pleasant corner of rural England, the blight of drugs had reached in and wrought its usual havoc. It made him feel helpless, and angry.
‘I told her not to marry him. I even disinherited her, but it wasn’t any good. His family had money too, you see,’ Sir Andrew raised his eyes from the carpet long enough to look at the blond Chief Inspector, then dropped them again. ‘They kept giving him money, so of course, he kept buying the stuff. Bastard.’
Flora turned a page on her notebook.
‘About the conference, Sir Andrew,’ Jason said getting back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you have a list of those attending?’
Sir Andrew nodded. ‘Office,’ he said briefly. ‘Geoff will give you a copy.’
Jason nodded. ‘Thank you. That’ll be most helpful. Your business here is a successful one, Sir Andrew?’ he asked, more to ease the man into the questioning rather than anything else. Already a full background check was being run on the conference centre as a matter of routine.
‘Yes,’ Sir Andrew said simply.
‘And this particular conference was booked when exactly? And by whom?’
The next ten minutes were taken up with details about how the conference came about, who was the organizer, and how the conference centre was run day to day.
‘Thank you, that’s all very clear. I don’t suppose you know how the guess list was arrived at?’ Jason asked, but Sir Andrew shook his head.
‘No idea. You’d better ask David that – David Carew, the local bishop.’
Jason nodded. ‘Now sir, can you tell me anything about the Reverend Gordon?’
Sir Andrew blinked. Once, then twice. Then he said heavily, ‘No. I didn’t know her.’
It struck Jason, for some unknown reason, as a strange kind of answer. It seemed oddly evasive. And yet why he should have thought so, he couldn’t say. It was a simple enough statement.
‘I see. Did you notice her arguing with anyone whilst she was here?’ he prodded.
For a second, the big brown eyes flickered and his wide shoulders tensed. Flora, as alert to body language as her boss, leaned forward expectantly, her pencil poised and obviously anticipating an affirmative answer. So it surprised them b
oth when Sir Andrew shook his large, brownish-red head and said, ‘No,’ rather flatly.
And Jason was certain, this time, that the man was lying. But he was experienced enough to know that there could be several explanations for this; ranging from the fact that he might feel too tired and ill to want to get involved, to a businessman’s reluctance to start telling tales on his guests. He decided, for the moment, to let it pass. He could always come back to it later, if need be.
‘I see. And you weren’t present at the dinner when the reverend collapsed?’
‘No, not at that one, although I was in the building. The dinner I actually attended was on the first day of the conference. On Friday.’
Jason frowned, unsure how to continue. Sir Andrew seemed to be willing enough to answer questions, but he was also being singularly unhelpful. As if determined to say the bare minimum. Also he looked so damned fragile. Jason could almost smell the pain and grief emanating from the man, and he had the feeling that Sir Andrew’s loss, even now, was like a fresh wound for him, rather than a healing one.
‘Were you aware if any of the other guests knew that Celia Gordon was coming to this conference, Sir Andrew?’ he tried another tack.
The squire shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. I table-hop from time to time, pass the time of day with guests and talk about the gardens and that sort of thing, but I don’t get chatty with them. They’re usually attending workshops or lectures anyway.’
It was the longest speech he’d made so far, and it seemed to exhaust him. He gave the odd impression of shrinking, right in front of their eyes. And Jason was only human. He didn’t like feeling as if he were badgering someone who so obviously had no reserves of strength or energy left with which to fight back. He was also aware of what a nightmare it could become if a suspect or a witness were to fall ill, or even worse, die, whilst in police custody or under police questioning. Common sense told him now wasn’t the time to push things.
