Gemma, Bella, Kincaid, and Booth repaired to the farthest table in the garden. It had grown so warm that it felt more like balmy summer than late September. Bees zoomed among the splash of red roses still blooming on the nearby stone wall and visited the small pot of lavender on their table, coming perilously close to Gemma’s egg mayo and watercress sandwich.
The pub car park was now full, and most of the other tables in the garden were occupied with Sunday lunch diners making the most of the weather. Viv had insisted that they take something to eat from the kitchen, and Gemma had had to admit that her bite of breakfast had long since worn off. She’d promised Viv that she’d help out in the pub wherever needed—the least she could do was bus tables—but not until she’d had a chance to make certain that she, Kincaid, and Booth were all up to speed. And not until they’d finished their lunches. Booth had ordered the ploughman’s, Kincaid the roast chicken sandwich, but she noticed he didn’t manage to eat more than a few bites.
When she and Booth, at least, were mopping up crumbs, she said, “I’ve been thinking, trying to work out what might have happened here on Friday night. Fergus O’Reilly apparently walked out of the bar without his coat or mobile. We assume he’d just stepped out and meant to come back, right? But why did he go outside? He didn’t smoke, did he?”
“Nothing indicates that he did,” agreed Booth. “Maybe it was too warm in the bar and he just needed some air.”
“Or maybe he needed to cool off for another reason—the argument in the kitchen,” said Gemma. “Jack Doyle told me that O’Reilly was slagging off Viv’s food the entire evening. Then he barged into the kitchen and he and Viv had a shouting match. Did anyone you interviewed say exactly what it was about?”
Booth gazed into the distance, then said, “The two cooks said that she told him to get out of her kitchen, that he had no right to be there. Viv Holland just agreed with them.”
“So.” Shooing a wasp away from her glass, Gemma took a cautious sip of her lemonade before going on. “If O’Reilly was sniping at her food and sending it back, I’d guess he was already angry with her. Why? Because she turned down the job he offered her? That seems a pretty extreme reaction.”
“Famous chef, offering her a plum job, and she doesn’t want it,” mused Booth. “Maybe his ego was wounded. He was never exactly a self-effacing bloke.”
“Formerly famous chef,” put in Kincaid. “According to what Doug Cullen found this morning.” He repeated what they had learned from Doug’s research.
“Well, if he wasn’t doing well, it must have really smarted to be turned down.” Booth ate his last potato crisp and eyed Kincaid’s plate.
“Maybe.” Gemma mulled this over. “But you know what bothers me about this? The mobile. Who leaves their phone behind these days when they step outside for a breath of air?”
“Who leaves their mobile in their coat pocket to begin with?” countered Booth. “Instead of keeping it in hand or on the table?”
“True. Although the reception is iffy here. But, I’ve been thinking. What if Fergus left his coat and his mobile not because he was angry, but because he wasn’t feeling well? We know he must have died very shortly after he left the pub.” She took out her own mobile, checked the bars, and pulled up a Wikipedia page. Scanning the page, she said, “Listen to this. Symptoms of digitalis poisoning include vomiting, loss of appetite—that could be why Fergus kept sending Viv’s food back—blurred vision, and confusion. We’ve never come up with any explanation for what Fergus O’Reilly was doing in Nell Greene’s car, or any connection between them.
“But what if he simply felt very ill and was trying to get back to his hotel? When Nell leaves the pub, say, half an hour later, she finds him wandering in the village, obviously ill. Nell was a hospital administrator. She certainly had enough experience to know he needed medical attention urgently.”
Slowly, Booth nodded. “That intersection, where she crashed into you, Duncan, would have been the quickest route to the hospital in Cheltenham.”
“Oh my God.” Gemma felt suddenly queasy as the idea came to her. “Everyone says how sensible Nell was. We see car crashes caused by distracted driving every day—people fussing with their Happy Meals or sending texts—but Nell was responsible, and careful. But—what if she looked over at her ill passenger and realized that O’Reilly had died?”
“Christ,” Kincaid said, his voice strangled. “She said— She tried to tell me something, but it didn’t make any sense to me then. She seemed so distressed, and not for herself. She said, ‘Tell them he—’ and that was all she managed.”
Looking at Kincaid, Gemma saw to her dismay that his eyes had filled with tears. “You didn’t tell me you spoke to her.”
“I— It was only a few seconds. Waiting for help. And then she was—gone.” Kincaid stood up, almost tipping over his wooden chair. “Excuse me, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, he left them, walking quickly across the courtyard and disappearing through the arch into the car park.
“He’s a bit upset, I think,” Booth said to Gemma.
She took in his lack of surprise. “You knew, didn’t you? That he spoke to Nell.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to tell strangers when something really gets to you.” Booth leaned forward, keeping eye contact with her. “You know. You know how it is on the job.”
After a moment, Gemma made an effort to relax her shoulders and let her breath out in a sigh. “Yes. You’re right. But still—”
“Head injuries can do funny things as well. Emotionally, I mean. I got seriously smacked once, playing rugby for the police team. I cried for weeks over anything, even telly adverts. You can imagine how well that went over on the job. I’d recommend that you make sure Duncan gets that head injury checked out.”
Gemma realized then what had been nagging at the edge of her awareness—how odd it had seemed that Kincaid hadn’t tried to run Booth’s investigation, whether it was officially his case or not. So accustomed was he to being in charge that it came as naturally to him as breathing, and ordinarily he’d have been organizing and suggesting, politely, of course. But he wasn’t. She said, “I’ve decided I’m not going back to London tomorrow. And I’ll make certain he sees someone first thing in the morning.” Looking towards the car park, she added, “Should I go after him?”
Booth shook his head. “No. I’d give him a few minutes to sort himself out.”
Gemma shooed a few more wasps while she tried again to order her thoughts. From the kitchen, she heard the rattle of dishes and the hum of voices, but she couldn’t distinguish the speakers. “Have you ruled out the possibility that O’Reilly might have overdosed on his own medication?” she asked Booth.
“Not entirely, until we can check out his home address. But I think if he’d been taking prescribed tablets, we’d have found them in his hotel room or on his person. Dr. Mason—the pathologist—says the toxic dose is five to ten times the therapeutic dose, but we’re still talking small tablets. The lethal amount would depend on the person’s health and sensitivity.”
Gemma scanned her phone screen again. “This says onset of symptoms from a lethal dose is thirty minutes to two hours. But it might not have been heart tablets. Apparently, all parts of the plant are highly poisonous, even dried seeds and leaves.”
Booth met her gaze. “Because of Jack Doyle’s death, we have to seriously consider the possibility that Fergus O’Reilly was deliberately poisoned. And, given the time frame, that it happened in or near the pub.”
“And that it’s highly likely the digitalis had to have been administered in his food or drink,” added Gemma, not liking this at all. “Which puts the pub staff squarely in the picture.” Looking towards the kitchen again, she shook her head. “I just can’t believe that any of them would have done that.”
“Well, we don’t know where O’Reilly was before he came to the pub Friday evening, so we can’t rule out the possibility that he ingested it somewhere else. And the plant grows bloody everywhere.”
Including the garden at Beck House, thought Gemma. She remembered seeing the distinctive leaves in what Addie had told them was the White Border, modeled on Gertrude Jekyll’s white borders. Hybrids of the foxglove seeds Jekyll had developed were available even now from catalogues, Addie had added.
“Nor do we know where he stayed those nights he didn’t use his hotel room,” Booth went on, still focused on O’Reilly. “Or who he met. Damn the man.”
“We need to get into his mobile,” said Gemma, then realized that with the plural, she’d just included herself in an official investigation, but Booth merely nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got forensics working on getting a fingerprint or facial recognition scan from the body, but that will take some time. I also need to liaise with the Met on checking O’Reilly’s London address. But it’s Sunday, and I doubt I can get anyone to return a call before tomorrow morning. And I’m seriously understaffed this weekend on all fronts.”
“I might be able to help with the London end,” said Gemma, hoping her idea would float. “I have a friend, a DCI at Kensington nick. I could give her a ring, see if she could check the place out. And maybe she’d be willing to track down Fergus O’Reilly’s former partner as well.”
“Can we talk somewhere away from the house?” Andy said, when Addie had gone in.
Nodding, Melody walked across the drive and Andy followed her. “How on earth did you get here?” she said, turning to face him.
“Taxi. From your little town where the train stops. Moreton-under-Puddle, or whatever it’s called.”
“I’d have fetched you from the sta—”
“Oh, right, when you got round to answering your texts or your phone calls? I’d have had a long bloody wait.”
“I was going to ring you. I just—”
“Doug told me he showed you the stupid paper. I can’t believe you fell for that crap,” Andy said, his voice tight.
“Did you see it?” Melody shot back, beginning to feel angry, too. “The pair of you looked like ‘love’s young dream.’”
Andy shook his head in disgust. “And how many hundreds of shots do you think it took that photographer to find one that looked like more than it was? You can’t be so naive. I told you from the very beginning that there was nothing between Poppy and me, and I’ve never given you any reason to doubt it. But you—you just flat-out lied to me, Melody.”
Her legs suddenly felt boneless. “What? What are you talking about?”
Andy leaned so close she could feel his breath on her face and punched a finger at her chest. “You said your dad was in the newspaper business.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Although I suppose you could say that, couldn’t you?” he added, dripping sarcasm. “So I look up this house when Doug gives me the directions, and I see it belongs to Sir Ivan and Lady Adelaide freaking Talbot. The Ivan Talbot.” He shook his head. “I’d feel really stupid for not seeing the connection, except why would it have occurred to me that it was more than coincidence, you sharing a last name with the owner of the bloody Chronicle?”
“He’s not the owner. The paper is legally my mother’s. Passed down from her parents. Dad’s just the managing editor.” Melody knew as soon as she said it that she’d sounded horribly prim and condescending, but she couldn’t take it back.
“Just the managing editor. Okay. Like this place is just a little weekend cottage.” Andy waved a dismissive hand at the house.
“The house isn’t that bi—”
“Oh, spare me,” Andy snapped, rolling his eyes. “You’re a freaking heiress, Melody, and you didn’t bloody tell me. Were you ashamed of me? Your working-class bit of fluff?”
“Oh, no. God, no! How can you think that?”
“Well, I do think. I think we’ve been going out, what, almost a year, and you said nothing. Were you ever going to tell me?”
“You don’t understand.” She reached out to touch him, but his look stopped her. Pulling her hand back, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and began to shiver. “I didn’t tell you at first because I thought it would frighten you off. Once they know, no one ever looks at me the same way—you’ve just given me proof enough of that. But the longer I put it off, the harder it got. And, then, I thought if it ever got out about us in the tabloids, then everyone on the job would know who I was—”
“Oh, right,” Andy broke in. “You can invite three cops home for your mum’s charity do, and not me?”
“It wasn’t like that.” She was pleading now. “They’re the only ones who know. I had to tell Gemma, and Doug found out. And I’d never invited anyone at all here, before this weekend.” She could tell from his face that she wasn’t moving him and she felt helpless, unable to stop this argument spinning out of control. “Look, I’m sorry I was upset over the photo, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my parents. Can’t you come in? We can talk about this—”
Andy shook his head. “No. I’m getting the next train back to London. I had the taxi wait in the village.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “And, besides, I don’t have anything else to say. We’re finished, Melody Talbot.”
She stared at him, her stomach dropping. “You can’t mean that.”
“Give my regards to your mother. It’s been nice knowing you.” With that, he turned and started up the drive, his head down, his hands shoved in his blazer pockets.
“Andy, please,” she called after him, but he didn’t pause, and he didn’t look back.
Kerry Boatman put down her phone and pushed her chair back from her desk, still smiling after her conversation. The first thing Gemma had said was “Caught you working on a Sunday, didn’t I? I can hear the sirens in the background.”
“Just finishing up,” Kerry had told her. “The girls went to church with their grandparents, so I thought I’d get a head start on Monday. What’s up with you? I thought you were out of town this weekend, hobnobbing with the country set.”
She and Gemma had first met on a case a couple of years earlier, when Kerry had been a DI at Lucan Place Station in Chelsea. Now, sadly, the station had been sold off by the Met. Kerry had been promoted to DCI and moved to Kensington Station on Earl’s Court Road. Then, last spring, she and Gemma had worked together to solve the murder of a young nanny in Notting Hill. Since then, they’d become good friends.
Kerry had come to respect Gemma’s professionalism and instincts on the job, and often wished she had her on her own team. So when Gemma had given her a brief rundown of the events in Lower Slaughter, Kerry said, “Trust you to run smack into one, if not two, possible murders. So what can I do for you?” She’d jotted down Gemma’s requests and said she’d get back to her as soon as she could.
Now, she studied her notes and did a quick Internet search. Colm Finlay, the restaurateur, would have to wait until the morning, as she could find only a corporate contact number. But she might be able to work in taking a look at the flat in Chelsea that afternoon while she was shopping for her daughter’s birthday.