A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  Bella stopped pawing at the door and looked at him, but she was still panting and wild-eyed.

  “Shh, that’s it, that’s a good girl.” When Kit was almost within touching distance, he said, “Bella, sit,” in his dog-training voice, and she did. Another step and he slipped his fingers round her collar and clipped on her lead. Dropping to his knees, he stroked her head and murmured to her until he felt her relax. “Okay, then,” he said, standing and patting his leg. Bella moved into place by his knee. “Let’s go,” he said to Grace.

  “She’d have been okay,” Grace muttered as they walked back towards the lane. “She’d have given up and she wouldn’t have wanted to come back here anymore.”

  “Maybe,” Kit said, not wanting to argue with her. “But right now I think we should take her back to the pub.”

  “Can we go just a bit farther? I don’t want to go back. And there’s something cool I was going to show you.”

  Kit considered as they reached the lane. The dog seemed calmer, and Grace hadn’t asked him for the lead back. “Okay, but let’s not go too far. We’re supposed to be going back to London after lunch.”

  “Okay.” Grace gave a little skip, curiously childlike for someone who was trying to be so grown up. As they walked on, the lane began to climb and the sun grew warmer. Kit was ready to say it was time to turn back when Grace stopped and pointed at a barred gate on the right. “That’s Mark’s farm, through there. It’s really big.”

  Beyond the gate, a drive crossed a deep rill carpeted with fallen leaves. Trees arched overhead, forming a tunnel that after a few yards opened up to a green field and farm buildings of golden Cotswold stone. Bella’s ears had pricked up again and he hoped they weren’t going to have a repeat of the scene at Nell’s cottage. He tightened his grip on the lead. “I really think we should—”

  “No, wait. Just a little bit farther.” Grace walked on up the lane and stopped after a few yards. There, an impenetrable hedge gave way to another barred gate, and beyond it Kit could see a field. “Look, here,” said Grace, pointing to a hollow under the gate. “We can go over and Bella can go under.”

  “But that’s somebody’s field.”

  “It’s Mark’s, actually. And he doesn’t mind. The sheep are all in the other pastures just now. We can cut across and pick up the public footpath.”

  “And that goes back to the village?”

  “Well, yeah, obviously. Along the river.”

  “Okay, then,” agreed Kit, happy not to take Bella back past the cottage. Grace climbed over the gate and he followed, holding tight to Bella’s lead, then urging her through the muddy dip under the gate.

  They crossed the field at an angle, managing another gate on the far side the same way they’d done the first. “See, the footpath,” Grace said, leaving him to manage Bella as she slid down a steep bank. “And there’s the river.”

  Kit and Bella scrambled after her. He would have called it a stream, he thought as he looked round, but she was right. It crossed under the path, then ran bubbling along on their left. The water was shallow and so clear it reflected the trees overhead like glass.

  “It’s the River Eye. It used to be spelled E-Y, not E-Y-E. It runs into the Windrush and the Windrush runs into the Thames, so this water ends up in London. I like to think about that.” She glanced at him as they walked along. “What’s it like, living in London?”

  Surprised, Kit said, “It’s okay, I guess. But I used to live in a village a lot like this and I liked it, too.”

  “Why did you move?”

  Kit really didn’t want to answer this, but after a few minutes, he said, “My mum died. I went to live with my dad.”

  “Did you know your dad before?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Were they divorced or something, your mum and dad?”

  “Well, yeah, they were, but it was . . . complicated.” There was no way Kit was explaining any further.

  “So Gemma’s your stepmother?”

  The question always took Kit aback. He didn’t think of Gemma that way—what did “step” mean, anyway? It somehow made their relationship seem like second best, and he didn’t think Gemma loved him any less than she loved Toby. Or Charlotte, and Charlotte wasn’t related to Gemma or his dad. “Yeah, she is,” he answered at last.

  Picking her way ahead of him along the track now, Grace said over her shoulder, “You’re lucky, then. Gemma seems nice.”

  “She is,” Kit said, puzzled. He’d thought that conversation was finished. “Why would you think she wasn’t?”

  “Because.” Stopping on the narrow track, Grace bent down and picked up a flat stone. “My mum isn’t.” She threw the stone at the water so hard that the splash sprayed them both.

  When the accident-investigation team arrived, Kincaid, Booth, and Dr. Mason left them to their measuring and photographing and walked back to Mason’s Jeep.

  “So, what are we looking for in terms of a vehicle?” Booth asked the doctor as they started peeling off their paper suits.

  “Well, obviously I’ll have to do some measuring as well. But from initial observation, I’d say something with a fairly high clearance—an SUV or a four-by-four, or possibly even a van. I’ll know more when I’ve got him on the table, so don’t quote me on that.”

  “That’s three-quarters of the county right there,” Booth muttered.

  “And the blow to the head?” Kincaid asked, making an effort not to touch his bandaged forehead.

  “There, you’ve got your classic blunt object, I’m afraid.” Dr. Mason took their paper overalls and booties and wadded them up in a ball, which she stuffed in a rubbish bag in the back of the Jeep. “Again, I’ll know more when I get some measurements from the impact site on his skull. I do have something for you, though, Colin. Your female victim in Friday night’s accident, Nell Greene, did not have any digitalis in her system. Or anything else toxic that I can find.”

  “Then what—”

  “She had a ruptured aorta from the collision. Nothing could have saved her. Until she ran into your car, Mr. Kincaid, she was a remarkably healthy woman.”

  Nell Greene’s imploring face, in those moments as her life slipped away, was imprinted in Kincaid’s memory. She’d had a new home, a dog, friends, and an expectation of a long and productive life. He realized that he had to know if all that had been taken from her by anything other than the purest chance.

  “I’ll ring you, Colin,” Dr. Mason continued, “just as soon as I can get to this one. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kincaid. If I were you, I’d have those injuries looked at.” She nodded briskly at them and climbed into her Jeep.

  Booth and Kincaid watched as she backed skillfully up, made a U-turn in the narrow road, and drove off towards Lower Slaughter.

  Gemma poured boiling water into an ancient Brown Betty teapot that Angelica had rooted out of a cupboard for her. This was the second—or was it the third?—pot she’d filled in the last hour. The capacity of people in a crisis for hot tea never failed to amaze her, but she was happy to oblige. She’d been the one to break the news to Ibby and Angelica. Viv hadn’t managed to get out more than Jack’s name before she’d pressed her hands to her mouth again, shaking her head.

  Ibby, after a shocked “You’re shitting me,” had sunk down in the chair next to Viv. It had been Angelica who’d rallied and organized more tea, even though she was red-eyed and sniffing.

  Putting the kettle back on the cooker, Gemma touched Angelica on the shoulder. “Are you all right? I can manage here if you want to go have a sit-down.”

  “No. No, I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine, but it’s not often I have a chance to see Ibby speechless.” Her laugh turned into a half-choked sob. “Jack would have thought that was bloody hysterical.” She pulled a sheet off the kitchen roll and blew her nose before refilling the milk jug. “I just can’t believe he could be so stubborn or so stupid.” Turning a red-rimmed gaze to Gemma, she said, “If there was one thing Jack wasn’t, it was careless.
”

  “Do you have any idea what was bothering him yesterday? Viv said he seemed distracted.”

  Angelica shook her head again. “No. He liked Nell. Of course he was upset, wasn’t he? We all were.”

  “When I spoke to him yesterday, he said something about a row.”

  “Oh, that.” Angelica picked up the steeping pot. “Fergus bloody O’Reilly. I cannot believe I’ve worked here for going on three years, and Viv never said a word about working with him. I mean, I knew she and Ibby had worked together in London, but anything more you asked either of them, they just clammed up.”

  She set the pot down again and looked at Gemma, her face pink with emotion. “Honestly, sometimes I wondered if it had been a really crap restaurant, something they were ashamed of. Except that they’re both too good. In which case, why the hell are they working here?”

  That, thought Gemma, was a very good question. But before she could say so, her phone rang. Excusing herself when she saw it was Kincaid, she stepped out into the yard to answer.

  “We’re on our way to the pub,” he said without preamble. “Or we will be, as soon as Booth finishes organizing uniform. The pathologist says the hit-and-run was deliberate. And that someone then bashed the victim over the head to make doubly sure he died. I thought you would want to be forewarned—but probably better not to steal Booth’s thunder.”

  “Right.” Although she couldn’t have said why, Gemma found that she was not all that surprised. And she agreed—she couldn’t break that news to the group assembled in the dining room. Then she thought of Kit, and Grace. “Got to go,” she told Kincaid. “I’ll explain later.”

  Ringing off, she punched in Kit’s number and held her breath until he answered. “Listen, love,” she said hurriedly, “I can’t explain right now, but can you keep Grace out with you for a while longer? Maybe take her up to the house?”

  “Um, I’m not sure . . .”

  “Please try. Your dad’s coming with DI Booth, and she doesn’t need to be here.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, that’ll be fun,” Kit said with studied casualness, and she knew he’d understood. No one knew better than Kit that bad news should be broken gently to a fragile eleven-year-old.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ignoring the closed sign, Kincaid and Booth let themselves into the pub by the main door. In a small dining room off the lounge they found Gemma, Viv Holland, and two people Kincaid hadn’t met, a thin man with a forbidding expression, and a slightly stocky, pink-cheeked woman. Kincaid put both in their midthirties, and from what he’d heard from Gemma and Melody, he guessed they were the other cooks, although they were still in street clothes. From the expressions of all three he could tell that they were shocked and upset, but Gemma’s slight shake of the head indicated that she had not told them the worst news.

  Gemma stood to greet them. “Inspector Booth. Duncan, you’ve met Viv. This is Ibby, and Angelica. They work in the kitchen.” She touched Kincaid’s arm. “This is my husband, Duncan Kincaid.” Angelica stood to shake his hand, while Ibby gave him only the barest of nods.

  Taking a chair, Booth said, “Miss Holland. I think you’ve all heard that Jack Doyle died last night, struck by a vehicle as he walked home.”

  Nodding, Viv pressed her lips together tightly in an obvious effort to contain their trembling. “I can’t believe—”

  “Some bastard,” broke in Ibby. “Some bastard just knocked him down and drove on? How could anyone do that? How could—” He stopped, blinking.

  “Miss Holland,” said Booth, “is the rest of your staff not in yet?”

  “No,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and said more strongly, “No. Most of them come from Moreton or Stow by the back road. I suspect they’re held up by—by—” She couldn’t finish.

  Kincaid had not sat when Booth did, but had instead stepped back a pace. He stood where he could see them all, cradling his injured hand with the good one. Although the day had been warming nicely, it was cold inside the pub, and he suspected Viv had forgotten to switch on the central heating. From his vantage point, he could glimpse the hearth in the lounge bar’s great fireplace, cold, and still clogged with yesterday’s ash. He could see, though, that under other circumstances the pub would be a cheerful and welcoming place.

  “And Bea,” Viv went on, “Bea goes to church in Cheltenham. I haven’t told her yet . . .”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” Booth told her, with a gentleness Kincaid hadn’t seen before. “But I’m afraid that when she does arrive, you’re going to have even worse news for her. We believe that Mr. Doyle was run down deliberately.”

  “What?” Viv just stared at him, her face blank.

  Ibby sat forward in his chair, his fists clenched. “What do you mean, ‘Run down deliberately’? That’s bollocks.”

  “I mean that the scene of the accident and Mr. Doyle’s injuries are consistent with a deliberate assault by a vehicle.” Booth left out, Kincaid noted, the blow to the head.

  “But you must be mistaken,” whispered Angelica. “No one would want to hurt Jack.”

  “It’s highly unlikely that a deliberate hit-and-run was random, I’m afraid, Miss Lockhart. Do any of you know why someone would have reason to harm Jack Doyle?”

  All three chefs shook their heads, but Kincaid thought he saw a slight hesitation in Viv’s face.

  “He was working here at the pub last night?” Booth asked.

  Viv found her voice. “Yes. Yes, it must have been close to midnight when he finished up in the bar. I told Gemma, I offered to drive him home but he insisted on walking even though it was coming on to rain. He always walked.”

  “Did he say or do anything unusual before that?”

  Glancing at Gemma again, Viv said, “He was—he was drinking, which wasn’t like him. But he didn’t say anything. I just assumed he was upset about Nell Greene.”

  “Were they friends?” Kincaid asked, wondering if they had missed something here. The bartender and Nell Greene would have been about the same age, both single, both apparently divorced.

  Frowning, Viv said, “Well, not outside the bar, I don’t think. But he always made a special effort to chat with her when she came in. Maybe he would have liked . . .” She trailed off, as if processing the idea that Jack’s attention to Nell might have been more than professional. “Bea would know better than me, since she’s front of house.”

  “Who would have known that Jack walked home after closing?” Booth asked.

  “Everyone who came in regularly,” Viv answered. “He liked to tell people that it stretched out the kinks from standing all day.”

  “Were you the last to see him, Miss Holland?”

  Viv nodded, tearing up again. “We closed up together.” Gemma, who was sitting beside her, gave her arm a comforting squeeze.

  Booth took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and Kincaid sensed the atmosphere in the room change. Everyone sat up a little straighter, their eyes fixed on Booth.

  “I’m going to have to ask you all where you were last night,” Booth said, pen now poised over an open page.

  Viv answered first. “I was here. After Jack left, I checked on Grace—that’s my daughter—then I went to bed.”

  “You live on the premises?”

  “In the cottage across the courtyard.”

  Booth made a note, then looked up at the other two.

  Angelica spoke first. “Ibby and me went to Moreton. Usually on Saturday nights, Ibby stays with my partner and me in town. We go out, have a few drinks. We must have left right before Jack—he was just finishing up in the bar. If we’d given him a lift—”

  “What kind of car do you drive, Miss Lockhart?” Booth asked.

  “A VW Golf.”

  Booth looked at Ibby. “Do you confirm this, Mr. Azoulay?”

  “Yeah. I don’t drink-drive. That’s really messed up. Me and Angie had a few beers with one of the chefs there in Moreton, then I kipped on Angie’s sofa.”

  S
pots of color had appeared in Viv Holland’s cheeks. “You can’t think that Angie or Ibby had anything to do with what happened to Jack. That’s ridiculous—”

  “We just have to eliminate them—and you—from our inquiries, Miss Holland,” said Booth. “I take it the van in the courtyard belongs to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own another vehicle?”

  “No,” Viv said, her voice still clipped with anger.

  Booth made a notation, then slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “Thank you. I will need to speak to all of your staff when they come in. You must realize this is a very serious mat—”

  A car door slammed loudly and a moment later the pub door flew open and Bea Abbott came in. “Viv! What is going on? We should be serving morning coffee—” She stopped, taking in the group huddled in the otherwise empty dining room. Then, as she fixed her gaze on Booth, she paled. “Oh my God. What’s happened now?”

  Booth persuaded Bea to sit down while he told her what had happened. She simply stared at him and shook her head. Dressed in a dark skirt and a floral blouse, her hair loose, she looked softer, more vulnerable. Finally, she said, her voice raspy, “You must be mistaken. Everyone loved Jack. I can’t believe someone wanted to hurt him.” When her eyes filled with tears, Gemma went to the kitchen to make yet another pot of tea.

  When she returned with the pot and more cups, Booth had his notebook out again.

  “A Fiat,” Bea was saying. “I drive a little Fiat runabout.”

  “And where were you last night?” Booth asked.

  “Home. Jack was still finishing up in the bar, so I left Viv to lock up. If only I’d—”

  Whatever she’d meant to say was cut off by loud voices and the excited yipping of a dog coming from the car park.

  Grace burst through the door, hair disheveled, glasses askew. Right behind her was Kit, with the collie, Bella, beside him.

  “Why are you trying to keep me away?” Grace shouted at her mother. “What have you done now?”