Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  “Perfect, I’ll get started,” Miss Jones said and pulled a chef coat off the hooks near the door.

  I added a black apron to my outfit and went to work on the sausages and fruit compote. Today’s fruit was warmed in a gentle sauce made with reduced lemon juice and fresh ginger. I placed pears, plums, and kumquat in crystal cups, poured the lemon ginger sauce over them, and let them sit. Next was poaching the eggs, which didn’t take long. We plated the meals and put them on the serving cart. Miss Jones took it away for the family.

  I washed my hands, dried them on a towel, and took a moment to sit at the table and study the résumés of the people I was to interview. There were two women and two men. All had solid qualifications and most had studied at London’s cooking school. It seemed that my choice would boil down to how the interviews went and who I got along with.

  My thoughts turned to Michael. Why wasn’t he here? Did something happen to him last night? Should I have told Ian about what I saw in the alley? I didn’t want to get Michael in trouble. He seemed like a great guy to me, caring about his family and friends.

  During orientation, I had been shown how to access a private web portal for the staff at Kensington Palace. I used my phone to access it now. On the intranet was a list of personnel and their phone numbers. I found Michel’s number and dialed it.

  Miss Jones came back with the serving tray as Michael’s phone started to ring. I walked through the kitchen and out into the hallway for privacy.

  “Hello?” The person who answered was female.

  “Hi, um, I’d like to speak to Michael Haregrove. Is he available?”

  “Who’s asking?” She sounded belligerent. I wondered if this was his roommate the model.

  “I’m Chef Cole, Mr. Haregrove’s new boss,” I replied. “May I speak to him?”

  “They should have told you that he isn’t coming in to work today.”

  “Mrs. Worth told me,” I said. “I assume he’s home. May I speak with him?”

  “Yeah, well, you assume wrong. Michael’s been arrested. I have no idea when or if he’ll be back here.”

  “Arrested? What for?”

  “They pinned that murder on him,” the woman said. “My brother the murderer. Reporters have been calling all morning. They’re hanging out in front of our place. Like I can tell them anything.”

  “They arrested Michael for the murder of Francis Deems?” My voice went up at the end of the sentence. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But they are best friends.”

  “Were best friends,” the woman said. “The coppers think that the best murder suspects are family and friends. So they picked up Michael.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You said he’s your brother? I didn’t know he had family other than his mother.”

  “I’m his sister,” she said, “Rosemary. Michael called me to let me know he’d been arrested. I live in Bath, but I came as fast as I could to look after Mum and the house for him.”

  “Rosemary, as his sister, you know Michael didn’t kill Mr. Deems.”

  “What I know won’t matter in court. I wasn’t here that night, so I can’t be my brother’s alibi. Michael wouldn’t let me lie for him, either. He always did have an overly developed sense of right and wrong.”

  “Do you know anything about Michael owing people money?” I asked.

  “No, why?”

  “I saw him in an alley last night being pushed around by a couple of burly guys who were demanding money. Does Michael gamble?”

  “Naw. Like I said, he has an overly developed sense of right and wrong. He won’t even enter an office baby pool.”

  “Weird.”

  “Are you sure it was Michael in the alley?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “I recognized his voice and then he stepped into the light. I saw his face, and he looked worried and a bit bruised.”

  “Bloody hell, Michael,” Rosemary muttered.

  “What? Do you know what was going on?”

  “My brother,” she said with a sigh. “He likes to run to people’s rescue. My guess is that he was taking the heat for one of his friends.”

  “Do you have any idea which one?”

  “No,” she said. “In this neighborhood, it could be any number of guys.”

  “What about Francis Deems? Could he have been taking the heat for him?”

  “Frank? No, he’s dead. The bookies know they can’t squeeze money out of a dead man. It’s why they rough guys up, not kill them, you know?”

  “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Michael is protecting someone. I just don’t know who,” she said.

  “Well, if you think of anyone or hear anything, can you give me a call?”

  “Sure,” she said and took down my number. “Are you going to go to the coppers with what you know?”

  “No,” I said and leaned against the hall wall. “Last night probably has nothing to do with the murder or Michael’s arrest. I think it’s best to keep it between you and me for now. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. We said our good-byes, and I hung up.

  “Keep what between yourselves?” Ian asked.

  I jumped at the sound of his voice and turned around. He stood at the top of the steps. I put my hand on my heart to try to slow the racing. “You should not sneak up on people,” I scolded. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” he replied and continued down the steps. “You were intent on your conversation and didn’t hear me.”

  “Wait, you’re blaming me for being startled?”

  “No blame,” he said. “But I did tell you to be aware of your surroundings at all times. What if I had been intent on hurting you?”

  “I had my back to the wall.”

  “But all your attention was on your conversation,” he pointed out. “Or I wouldn’t have surprised you. Now, back to my question: what are you keeping to yourself?”

  “I’m getting my boyfriend a present for his birthday,” I lied. “That was his sister.”

  “I see,” he said and studied me.

  I am a terrible liar, and I had to work very hard to remain poker-faced under his scrutiny. “What happened to Mr. Haregrove?” I asked to break the tension. “He seemed fine when I saw him at the wake yesterday. Mrs. Worth said he was out indefinitely. Do you know why?”

  “Mr. Haregrove has been arrested for Mr. Deems’s murder,” Ian said. He crossed his arms. “We’re trying to keep the whole thing out of the press.”

  “I don’t understand. Mr. Haregrove is the nicest person. Why would the inspector think that he, of all people, killed Mr. Deems? I mean, don’t you need motive, means, and opportunity?”

  “Mr. Haregrove is having an affair with Mr. Deems’s wife,” Ian said.

  I gasped at that news. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised from the way Michael looked at Meriam, but I was. Frank was Michael’s best friend. You don’t sleep with your best friend’s wife. “What makes you think that?”

  “We had a witness come forward.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Deems’s mother came forward with her suspicions,” he said. “The inspector confronted Mr. Haregrove, and he admitted as much.”

  I rubbed my temples as a sudden headache appeared. “Mr. Haregrove was sleeping with his best friend’s wife? That doesn’t make sense. The two were so close. Mr. Haregrove told me that he was Mr. Deems’s sons’ godfather.”

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Haregrove why he did it,” Ian said. “What I know is that he had motive to get rid of Mr. Deems. That motive was so that he could marry Meriam himself.”

  “Did he tell you that? Did he confess?”

  “No.” Ian shook his head. “Mr. Haregrove is maintaining his innocence.”

  “Well, surely the security logs will show that Mr. Haregrove couldn’t have done it. He wasn’t in the palace at the time. Aren’t the logs precise about who is in the building and where they are going?”

&n
bsp; “There was a power glitch that night,” he said and scowled. “We suspect someone knew how to get past the system. It came back on an hour after the coroner estimates Mr. Deems died.”

  “Wait, don’t you have redundant systems?”

  “We do,” he said. “Whoever messed with it took out both. That’s why we know it’s a palace insider.”

  “What about the security person who monitors that system?”

  “He responded to an emergency call and left his station.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said and drew my eyebrows together. “Do you only have one security guy on duty at night?”

  “We have several,” he said. “Enough for you not to be concerned you for your safety.”

  “Then what was so important that he left his post?”

  “A fire broke out in the server room. It was quite a mess.”

  “So the murderer set up a diversion and then sabotaged the system so that he could kill Mr. Deems.”

  “That is the prevailing theory.”

  “But what was Mr. Deems doing in the greenhouse anyway? As far as I knew, he had left for the night. Why return?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out.”

  “And your server room, is that okay?”

  “We’ve had the IT department in there replacing and updating everything for the last two days. This kind of thing won’t happen again.”

  “No wonder you’ve been busy.” I scratched my head. “The fire in the server room means that you had to let firefighters in to stop it, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you know someone didn’t slip in disguised as a firefighter, kill Mr. Deems, and slip out?”

  He chuckled. “That is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? In crime, as in life, the simplest explanation is usually the correct explanation.”

  “What about Chef Butterbottom?”

  “What about him?”

  “I understand he and Frank didn’t get along. Rumor had it he was arguing with Frank the night he was killed. And so was the greenhouse keeper, Jasper Fedman, for that matter.”

  “Chef Butterbottom doesn’t like anyone,” Ian said. “And both arguments are just rumors. No one has come forward as a witness to them.”

  “But either still could have done it.”

  “I can’t prove it,” Ian said. “What I can prove is that Mr. Haregrove had plenty of motive and access to the victim. Now, let’s head back into the kitchen. I understand you are interviewing new staff today.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I have four people to speak with. I’ll be interviewing them in the conference room where you had me talk to the inspector, right?”

  “Yes,” he said and opened the kitchen door for me. Miss Jones was inside, cleaning dishes and prepping for the lunch menu. “I see you have help today.”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is Miss Jones. She’s on loan from the main kitchen.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gordon.” She smiled and wiped her hands on a towel. “How are you today, sir?”

  “I’m well. Thank you for asking.” He looked at me. “I thought you might need a map to get to the conference room.” He pulled one out of his pocket. “That way you won’t get lost.”

  “Thanks.” I took it from him.

  “Good day, ladies,” he said and left.

  I unfolded the map. It was a floor plan of the palace with dotted lines from my kitchen to his conference room.

  “He really brought you that?” Miss Jones asked looking over my shoulder. “You know you can ask anyone if you get lost.”

  “I think he wants me to not wander into places I don’t belong.” Shaking my head, I put the map in my pocket and got started on the lunch bread. My thoughts turned to Michael as I worked. There was no way he had killed Francis Deems. No way. I’d only known him two days and even I could tell he wasn’t capable of the deed.

  I paused in kneading the dough. No one had told me how Frank died. I saw a lot of blood, but no gaping wound. That meant he was killed from behind. But if he was killed from behind, why did I find him face up?

  “Do you know how Mr. Deems died?” I asked Miss Jones.

  “I thought you were the one who found his body.”

  “I did,” I said. “But I didn’t get an official cause of death. I thought you might have heard something.”

  “They say he was gutted with a butcher knife,” Miss Jones said as she prepared the side dishes. “That’s why they arrested Mr. Haregrove. After all, he is a butcher.”

  “But I thought it was Mr. Deems who was the butcher,” I pointed out. “Mr. Haregrove was the prep chef.”

  “Oh,” she said and shrugged. “All I’m telling you is what I heard. Mr. Deems was gutted with a butcher knife in the greenhouse, and it was a crime of passion. Mr. Haregrove has access to the butcher knife, the greenhouse, and Mr. Deems. Plus, he is having an affair with Meriam. Murder solved, if you ask me. Not that they ask me.”

  But it all seemed a little too easy to me.

  Chapter 11

  The duchess decided she wanted to cook dinner for her family. She did that when she could to try to give her children a sense of normalcy. Therefore, I had the evening off.

  I went to see Michael. He was out on bail but could not leave his home. The tube ride was crowded with the evening rush hour, but I didn’t mind. I kind of liked the crush and the endless announcements of a train approaching and minding the gap as you got on and off.

  Climbing the stairs out of the station, I felt a bit virtuous. “No need for a gym here,” I said to no one in particular.

  Huffing and puffing, I made my way through the turnstile and down the four blocks to Michael’s house. I had gotten the address from the palace’s intranet. This time I brought a basket full of chocolate chip cookies.

  I knocked once and waited. The light in the parlor was on, and I could hear a television somewhere that either Michael or a neighbor was watching. It was hard to tell which because the homes were all connected.

  Knocking again, louder this time, I heard someone get up. There was a half-moon transit window in the door and Michael’s face popped into view. He opened the door.

  “Come in quickly. We just got rid of the reporters, and you don’t need your picture in the papers with me.”

  I entered the home and walked with Michael to the parlor. Inside it was cozy with bookcases filled with books, two wingback chairs, and a fireplace with a fire going. He was listening to music. The air smelled of freshly baked bread.

  “Rosemary is upstairs napping, and I don’t want to disturb her,” Michael said. “I’m sure she’ll be disappointed to have missed you.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to disturb her rest. I’m sure she needs it. I’m only here to bring you some cookies,” I said and handed him the basket.

  He opened it and sniffed. “Classic American chocolate chip.”

  “I had to go to two markets to find everything to make them like we do at home. Only Tollhouse chips will do,” I said. “And my secret ingredient.”

  He snagged a cookie and took a bite. “Cinnamon.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  He stuffed a second cookie in his mouth and tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make tea.”

  The kitchen itself was modern and spic and span. Everything was white or silver, even the kitchen curtains on the window over the sink.

  You could tell Michael was a cook based on where he placed things in his kitchen. His knives were sharp and well displayed. Pans hung from a hanger over the stove. There were pots of herbs growing in his window.

  “Do I smell bread?” I asked.

  “Twisted egg,” he said. “My sister’s favorite.” He opened the cupboard to get out a plate and cups. “Please, have a seat.”

  There was an oblong table with five wooden chairs around it. I sat in a chair that faced the kitchen and the living room. It was an odd home. The foyer was cozy with flowered wallpaper, the parlor thick with books and dark
leather chairs, and the kitchen bright and white and simple.

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “My parents bought it in the fifties,” he said. “Mum loved the wallpaper in the hall. Ever since she went into the nursing home three years ago, I can’t bring myself to take it down.”

  “Does your father still live here?” I could imagine him looking rather like Michael, only thinner and stooped.

  “No, he lives out in the country now with his new wife.”

  “His new wife?”

  “Yes, he divorced and remarried less than a year after Mum got sick. They left the house to Rosemary and me and took off for Bath. He says he likes the quiet of the country.”

  “I see.” The teapot whistled and he turned off the stove and poured hot water into the tea pot before placing a cozy around it. The way he made tea seemed rote, but I bet it brought him comfort. It was the small rituals that kept us going in hard times. “Are the books yours or his?”

  “They started out as his,” Michael said and brought over the plate of cookies and sat down. “But I’ve been adding to them my entire life.” He sent me a small smile as he poured the tea. “I guess that means they are mostly mine.”

  “Real books are treasures, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get lost in them.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. “I heard about the arrest. Do you have a good lawyer?”

  “Good enough, I suppose,” he said and bit into a cookie. “He got me out of jail for now. I have to wear the bracelet, though. They know wherever I go.” He stuck out his long leg and pointed to the plastic bracelet around his ankle. “In this neighborhood, it’s a bit of a fashion statement, or so Rose tells me.”

  “Did you do it?” I had to ask.

  He looked me straight in the eye. “No. I would never.”

  “See, I agree. It doesn’t make any sense.” I sighed. “You were his best friend.”

  “Frank and I were friends since grammar school. There wasn’t much we wouldn’t do for each other.” He put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. “They won’t let me see Meriam and the boys. I don’t know how she’s coping.”