Having seen Grace run out of the scullery, Kit had returned to the kitchen and found Viv staring at the stacks of dirty dishes with her hands in her hair.
“I have to go,” she said, looking up at him. “To the police headquarters, with Detective Booth. They—they need me to do something. And I don’t know how I’m going to get all this mess sorted.”
Kit had seen the man in the dark suit, on the terrace with his dad and Sir Ivan, and had wondered who he was. “Can I help?”
Some of the tension seemed to go out of the chef’s shoulders. She gave him a smile that he could see took an effort. “You don’t mind?”
He shook his head. “No, honestly.”
“Okay, then. All the jars and the camping tins need to go back to the pub. If you can load them in the van, they’ll go in the dishwasher there. But all of Lady Addie’s things need to be rinsed and put in the dishwashers here. You know there’s a second one in the scullery?”
“Got it.”
Kit followed her out to the drive, where the detective was waiting, and watched them get into the black Volvo and drive away.
Puzzled about what had happened, he’d gone looking for Gemma and found her bringing in yet another tray from the garden.
“Why did Chef Viv have to go with the detective?” he asked. “She can’t have done anything wrong.”
“No, love, I’m sure she hasn’t.” Gemma deposited the tray on the scullery work top and turned to him, her expression serious. “But the people in the car that crashed into your dad last night both died, and it seems that Viv knew one of them, the man, from when she used to work in London. Detective Inspector Booth just wanted her to confirm the man’s identification.”
“She’s not in trouble, then?” Hating the squeak in his voice, Kit started unloading plates from Gemma’s tray.
“No, of course not.” Gemma touched his shoulder so that he had to look at her. “You were a big help today. You two really hit it off, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “She’s cool. I like helping,” he added, shrugging to indicate that it was no big deal. He did a good bit of the cooking at home, and sometimes he even helped their friend Wesley Howard in the kitchen of the café where Wesley worked part-time. But today with Viv had been different. He’d felt, not just important, but . . . essential. That was it. Like she really couldn’t have managed without him—and her a real professional chef.
“I’m sorry this weekend isn’t turning out the way we’d planned,” Gemma said, shifting the last of the plates.
“It’s okay.” Kit thought of the walks he and his dad had planned, just the two of them. They’d downloaded maps and worked out routes, and even filled day packs with compasses and snacks and bottles of water.
When he asked why they needed compasses, his dad had teased him. “You can’t do everything on your phone. It’s the country. You might not even have a signal.”
Obviously, those walks were not going to happen. But if Kit had been disappointed, just for a bit, it had scared him to see his dad with his head and hand bandaged. And that was before he knew that the other people in the crash had died. He felt stupid for having gone on to Doug about a new car. “Dad’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” he said to Gemma now, feeling the knife prick of worry.
“He’s fine. Just a little banged up.” Gemma put her arm round him and gave him a quick squeeze. “He’s having a rest. I’ll go and check on him as soon as we get things squared away here.”
They had worked in companionable silence, rinsing and filling the dishwashers, the clink of china and glassware a counterpoint to the regular chatter of voices from the front hall as the Talbots said goodbye to their guests. The ladies from the village who’d helped with the serving left as well, and through the open scullery door, he heard faint bangs and thumps as Doug and Melody and the gardener, Joe, folded chairs and broke down tables.
Roz, the blond woman who seemed to work for Lady Addie, came in with an armload of tablecloths for the washing machine. She looked a little flustered, Kit thought. Behind her was Melody, with another bundle of linens.
“Has anyone seen Grace?” Melody asked. “I told Viv I’d drive the van down to the pub and take Grace home as well.”
“I’ve no idea,” snapped Roz. “I’ve enough to do without child minding.”
Kit saw Gemma’s eyebrows go up at her tone. “I’ve put Toby and Charlotte in the sitting room with a video,” she said, mildly, “but Grace wasn’t with them.”
“I’ll find her,” Kit volunteered, feeling suddenly hemmed in by the air of tension in the room.
He went out the scullery door onto the terrace. The tables and chairs had vanished and the lawn looked as pristine as a bowling green. Doug stood at the edge, his back to the house, deep in discussion with Joe. The earlier spatter of rain had stopped and the sky had begun to clear; the rain had brought a little chill to the air.
“Has anyone seen Grace?” Kit called.
“Grace?” Doug turned, looking puzzled.
“The kid with the glasses.” Too late, Kit wondered if Doug would think that was rude, but Doug had already turned back to the view.
“Not lately,” said Joe.
“What about the dogs?”
“No idea.”
“Okay, thanks.” Kit wondered why everyone connected with Beck House seemed to be cross. The food had been super, and from what he’d seen, the luncheon had been a big success.
Leaving them, he’d wandered in the direction of the glasshouse and the storage shed—although shed seemed the wrong word for the sturdy, stone-walled building. He peeked inside, seeing nothing but stacked tables and chairs, mowers and gardening equipment.
Next, he poked his head into the muggy warmth of the glasshouse. It smelled like the potting soil Gemma used for the geraniums on their patio. Long tables covered with pots and plants and plastic trays stretched down either side of the building. The floor held bags of soil and fertilizer and wooden crates filled with more gardening tools. He was about to move on when he heard a sound.
“Grace?” he called, then stood still to listen.
There it was again, a little snuffle. He walked down the center aisle, peering behind things, until he came to some crates that were double stacked a few feet from the end. There was a space between the crates and the back of the building, and in it was Grace, sitting on the dirt floor with her arms wrapped round her bony knees. “Grace? What are you doing in here? Everyone is looking for you.”
“Go away.” Her face was tear-streaked and her nose red as a Christmas bulb.
Kit brushed away a few cobwebs and sat down beside her. “Melody wants to take you back to the pub.”
“I don’t want to go home.” Grace wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper. “I don’t want to talk to you, either.” She turned her face away.
“Why? I thought we were friends, earlier.”
Grace gave a little hiccup and the tears started sliding down her face again. “That was . . . before.”
“Did I do something?”
Shaking her head, she wailed, “Nooo.” She swiped at her eyes, knocking off her glasses. Kit picked them up and polished them on the hem of his T-shirt, then handed them back without looking at her. “Thanks,” Grace mumbled. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
Kit thought for a moment. Grace had seemed fine until her mum had spoken to her in the scullery. “Are you worried about your mum having to go to the police, then?”
“No.” Grace gave him an offended scowl, as if it were ridiculous to think she’d be worried about her mother. Kit had to bite his tongue. This was clearly not the time to tell her that her mum was nice and that she was lucky to have her.
If it wasn’t about her mum, then, was Grace upset about the car crash? He frowned. They had talked about the lady, Nell, and Grace had seemed to be okay with that. But she hadn’t known about the man, then, had she? Was that what Chef Viv had told her in the scullery?
“Grace, is this about the bloke who died in the crash?”
This time she sobbed in earnest and hugged her knees tighter. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was—he was nice to me.”
“You knew him?”
She nodded, gulping. “He— He was— He said he—”
“Kit?” came Gemma’s voice. “Are you in here?”
“Coming,” he called. Standing, he brushed off the seat of his jeans and held out a hand to Grace. “We’d better go. But I’ll try to come down the pub,” he whispered. “If you want to talk.”
Booth watched Viv Holland as she stood at the mortuary viewing window, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. On the other side of the glass, the attendant pulled back the sheet. Viv gave a little gasp, then stood motionless for a long moment.
“Is it Fergus O’Reilly?” Booth asked. The crush injury at the top of the man’s forehead had not marred his profile, and there had been no blood to wash out of his long, curling hair. O’Reilly’s other injuries had been minor, surprisingly.
Her shoulders slumping, Viv nodded, then reached out and touched the glass, very gently. “I know it sounds trite, but he looks so . . . peaceful. Fergus was always moving. If he wasn’t cooking, he was talking, or pacing, or fiddling with something. That . . . injury”—she nodded towards O’Reilly’s head—“did it— I don’t like to think of him being in pain.”
Booth wasn’t ready to tell her O’Reilly hadn’t died in the crash. “I doubt he suffered,” he said, which was neutral enough. “Did Mr. O’Reilly have any distinguishing marks?”
“A tattoo. On his left forearm. Fergus didn’t approve of tattoos, but we talked him into it one night.”
“We?”
“The cooks.” Viv pushed up the left sleeve of her chef’s tunic. “Like this.” On her forearm, a small chef’s knife and a honing rod were crossed beneath a stylized toque. Above the toque floated a tiny rosette.
Booth spoke to the mortuary attendant through the speaker, and the woman lifted the sheet to reveal O’Reilly’s left forearm. The tattoo matched.
Viv turned away, her eyes swimming with tears, as if that small thing had hurt her more than the sight of O’Reilly’s face. “Can we go now?” she said abruptly. “I’ve got to get back to the pub.”
When they reached the car park, Booth saw that the earlier shower had stopped while they were inside. The sky still looked threatening to the west, however, so there might be more rain to come. “You had a lot of faith in the weather forecast, planning an outside luncheon today,” Booth said as he unlocked the car, hoping to relax the atmosphere between them.
Viv didn’t answer until she’d fastened her seat belt. “Addie had a marquee on hold until midmorning. But, yeah, we scraped by.” She fell silent as he drove, her face half turned away from him.
She looked, Booth realized, exhausted. When, after a moment, he said, “I am sorry about your friend,” she started as if she’d been miles away.
“I wouldn’t exactly call Fergus a friend.”
“Former employer, then. In any case, I know that what you’ve just done is very difficult.”
Viv just nodded.
Booth tried another tack. “You’re not in touch with anyone else who knew him?”
“Well, of course, there’s Ibby—” she began, then, on a rising note of distress, “Oh, dear God, I’ll have to tell Ibby. I didn’t even think about him— How could I be so—”
“Who’s Ibby?” broke in Booth.
“My sous-chef.” Viv took a breath. “We both used to work for Fergus.”
“Did he still keep in contact with O’Reilly?”
“Christ, no,” she said, then shot him an abashed glance. “I mean, no, I doubt it. I’m sure Ibby would have mentioned it,” she added, but she sounded a little uncertain. She was silent again, her hands, which had been open in her lap, were now tightly clasped.
But when Booth glanced at her a few moments later, her eyes were closed and her face had relaxed. He thought she might have actually fallen asleep. He didn’t disturb her, glad of the time to think about what he should do.
He was certain that there were things Viv Holland was not telling him. What he didn’t know was whether or not those things had any bearing on the deaths of Fergus O’Reilly and Nell Greene. He sensed that Viv was an intensely private person, and that even the little she’d shared with him had been under duress.
As for now, he only had a suspicious death, not a crime. Was he justified in pulling in more manpower, from either uniform or CID, until he knew if O’Reilly had been taking prescribed medication that might have killed him?
He could, he thought, do a little digging himself. His curiosity was aroused, he had to admit. How often did he have a celebrity death on his doorstep—much less the death of a celebrity he had admired and had actually met?
And, having had a word with Doug Cullen—make that Metropolitan Police Detective Sergeant Doug Cullen—while Viv was speaking to her daughter, he now knew he had an entire contingent of coppers at hand.
Kincaid woke to the touch of a cool hand on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he found Gemma sitting on the edge of the bed, studying him, her brow creased in a frown. “What is it?” he managed to mumble, his mouth dry from the pain pill he’d swallowed when he came upstairs.
“You were dreaming again, muttering in your sleep.”
“Was I?” He tried to hang on to a fragment from the jumbled images that teased at his consciousness, but it was gone. “I can’t remember.”
“I thought you might have a fever, but you’re cool.”
“I know I am,” he replied, summoning a grin. Sitting up a bit, he was glad to find that his head didn’t swim. He slipped his good arm round her waist. “Come to bed.”
“I think you must have a concussion,” said Gemma. “It’s the middle of the afternoon in someone else’s house, and the children will pop in any minute. Besides, I’d hurt you.” She smiled and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth very gently.
“Ow.”
“See? I told you so.”
Pushing himself farther up in the bed, he flexed his right arm and hand gingerly, then moved his head. Nothing spun. “I feel better. Those pills must be magic.” He released Gemma and reached for the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table. “What’s going on?”
“DI Booth took Viv to make the identification. We have all of her things packed into her van. Melody’s going to drive the van to the pub and I’m going to take the kids to the village in Melody’s car. They want to get ice creams at the mill.”
“Melody must have told them about the ice creams.”
Laughing, Gemma said, “I’m not taking responsibility. But they could use an outing and I want to see the village—and the pub. I’ll help Melody and Doug unload the van. I’m not sure who’s on hand at the pub if Viv’s not back.”
Kincaid swung his legs off the bed. So far so good. “I’m coming, too.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“If I managed to keep up with Ivan this morning, I could probably run a marathon.”
Gemma started to speak, then hesitated.
“What is it, love?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were feeling up to it. But Melody got the key to Nell Greene’s cottage from Mark Cain. I thought you might like to be the one to give it to DI Booth.”
Joe had loaded all Viv’s equipment into her van, helped by the tall, lanky kid who was visiting—Kit, he thought the boy was called—and Melody, and Melody’s friend from London, the one who was mad on gardening. He hadn’t needed to be told that the friend was a cop. With his round glasses and neatly pressed chinos, the guy looked more like a programmer, but he had that quiet, watchful air all cops seemed to acquire, natural as breathing.
A half hour later, Melody and Grace and Melody’s friend had squeezed into the van, while the pretty copper-haired woman and the other bloke, the one who’d been in the car crash, got into Melody’s car with the three kids. When they’d all driven away, he raked the gravel forecourt until it formed perfect undulating ripples, like the sand in a Japanese meditation garden.
It wouldn’t last. Of course it wouldn’t. Nor did the trimming and tidying he did every day in the gardens, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t worth the doing, in and of itself. He understood Viv, with her constant battle to master elements that were of necessity fleeting.
Going round the side of the house, he put the rake away in the shed, then made his way through the kitchen garden and down the walk that ran along the outside of the formal hedges. At the end of the last hedge, he crossed the bottom lawn and entered the thicket of trees that bordered the river. The arching branches hid him now from any casual observer. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, not until he’d had time to think about what he’d heard.
His carefully tended path through the trees ended in a small clearing on the river’s edge. The one-room fishing hut—built by Addie’s great-grandfather shortly after the construction of the house—hugged the shoreline. Here, the river had been partially dammed so that it widened into a good-sized trout pool, and the hut’s large covered porch extended a few feet over the water.
When he’d first come to work here, he’d found the hut neglected since Addie’s father’s death—Ivan Talbot was no fisherman. Joe, fascinated by the place, had offered to make the necessary repairs. He’d mended the fishing tackle as well, and would cast a line when he’d finished his day’s work in the gardens. More and more often, he spent the night on a camp bed in the hut rather than driving back to his small, barren flat in Moreton.
When Addie caught on to his overnight stays, she’d offered to let him live there if he wanted to make the place more habitable. “But surely you’ll miss the nightlife, and your friends,” she’d said.
“I don’t think you can say that Moreton-in-Marsh has nightlife,” he’d answered with a smile. He didn’t add that he didn’t have any friends he could be bothered to keep up with. The oldest of six in a cramped house, he’d never wanted anything as much as to be alone.
Once settled in the hut, he fished, he cooked simple meals on the camp stove, and read his books on landscape design and plants and philosophy. On warm evenings, he stretched out on the little dock and watched the stars. In the winter, he warmed himself by the wood-burning stove. The lack of company bothered him not at all.
But he had, unfortunately, missed sex, and that had been his undoing.
The shade from the riverside sycamores kept the hut cool on warm days, but it also meant the room grew dim in the afternoons. Lighting the lamp that hung from the beamed ceiling, he took a glass from one of the storage shelves and reached for the seldom-drunk bottle of single malt. He’d just poured a generous finger when he heard footsteps on the porch, then the hut door was yanked open.
Without turning, he said, “What do you want, Roz?”
“Pour me one of those.” She sat, uninvited, on the edge of the camp bed.
Joe took down another glass and splashed some whisky into it. When he turned, he saw that she was far from her usual calm and collected self. Her hair had come loose from its customary twist. Her perfect lipstick had vanished, and her blouse was half untucked from the waistband of her dark trousers. A few weeks ago, he’d have been aroused at the sight of Roz disheveled. Now, he said, “Drink up and get out.”
“Sit down, darling, for heaven’s sake.” Her lips formed a pout.
He knocked back enough single malt to set his throat on fire and stayed where he was. “What do you want, Roz?” he said again.
“Did you hear . . . about him?” When she lifted her glass, he saw that her hand was shaking.
“One of the church ladies told me. You know what gossip is like in the villages.”
Roz flushed. “That was beneath you. So . . . Did you talk to Viv?”
“Really? And what should I have said when she was being taken to identify the body? You are a harpy, Roz.”
She gave him a calculating look over the rim of her glass. “That never bothered you before.”
“Yes, well.” He shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”
She looked hurt. “I never thought you’d be so petty, darling Joe.”
To tell the truth, it had surprised him as well. Their relationship had seemed the perfect liaison of convenience. She was almost twenty years older, with her own home, a good job. There was none of the pressure to do the things required of a conventional relationship—to marry, to settle down, have kids, buy a little box on a housing estate.
It had been ideal. Until the day when he’d walked in on her in Beck House.
She raised an arched eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? About him?”
Unmoved by her appeal, he said, “Why shouldn’t I?”
Roz took another swallow of the Glenlivet and licked her lips. “Because, if you do, I’ll tell Addie you’ve been skimming.”
He stared at her. “You bitch.” Swallowing hard, he tried to tamp down the rage. “You know I wasn’t— I’m a partner, for God’s sake, and I’ll pay the bloody money back.”
“Then why not tell Addie? What did you need the money for, anyway, Joe? Some problem with your pack of relatives?”
“None of your damned business,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Well, whatever it was, I doubt it will make a difference to Addie.” Her smile was vicious.
“Damn you, Roz. Get out.” He crossed the room in one long stride and yanked her up by her arm. The remains of her whisky splashed over them both, the fumes filling his nose like brimstone. He shoved her towards the door. “And don’t come down here again. I swear I’ll hurt you if you do.”