A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

Kincaid had nearly reached the yard when Bella yipped and two other black-and-white collies came streaking out of the barn, barking madly. He stood still as they circled round him, greeting Bella and sniffing him enthusiastically as well.

  “Wally! Sprig! What the hell are you doing?” Mark Cain came out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. “Oh, it’s you,” he added when he saw Kincaid. He nodded at Bella, who was quivering, her swishing tail beating against Kincaid’s leg. “You can let her loose. She’s fine in the yard. I just like to keep an eye on her in case she decides to scarper back to Nell’s.”

  Kincaid managed to unhook the lead with his left hand and Bella joined the other dogs in a race round the farmyard.

  “She’s still a pup, really,” said Cain as he watched the dogs. “Thanks for returning her. I told Viv I had to get the hay unloaded from the trailer before I could fetch her.” He gestured at the trailer, which still held a few bales of hay.

  “I didn’t mind. She’s a lovely dog. And I wanted a word with you anyway.”

  Studying him, Cain said, “Well, I could use a break. You’d better come in.” He led Kincaid round to the back door of the farmhouse and exchanged his boots for slippers before inviting Kincaid inside. The dogs came with them, heading straight for their water bowl and lapping noisily.

  It was a big, stone-flagged kitchen, with a center island and sleek fittings. After washing his hands, Cain opened the fridge and pulled out two unlabeled brown bottles with stopper-sealed tops. He held out one to Kincaid. “Have a cider. It’s a gift from my friend with an orchard up Stow way. Presses and bottles it himself every year.” When Kincaid accepted, Cain clicked his bottle against Kincaid’s. “Cheers.” Taking a long swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the work top.

  Kincaid drank. The tart, fresh, green-apple taste seemed to explode in his mouth and made his eyes water. “Bugger, that’s stout stuff,” he said when he’d managed to swallow and blink back the tears.

  Cain grinned. “No alcohol percentage regulations on homemade cider. More than two of these will make you sorry the next day.” The smile faded. “What did you want to talk to me about, then?”

  Kincaid sipped more gingerly before answering. “I was wondering about Nell, whether there was anyone to make funeral arrangements.”

  “Ah. Good question. I had a word with the vicar last night. She was trying to get in touch with Nell’s ex. There is a niece somewhere but I don’t think they were close. I know her sister died a few years ago. If no one steps in, the vicar’s going to organize a service in the church here and a little reception in the village hall. Viv said she’d provide the tea and cakes.”

  Kincaid nodded, feeling relieved. “I’m glad she’ll be looked after. Did Nell attend the church?”

  “Yes, pretty regularly. I don’t think she was all that religious but she wanted to fit into the community.” Cain shook his head. “It’s a bloody shame. She was a nice woman. And now this business with Jack Doyle. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Did Viv tell you?”

  “Yes. She rang me not long after I’d dropped Bella here off this morning. But the news will have gone all round the farms by now.” Frowning, he drank some more of his cider. “I don’t understand it. Jack was not a careless fellow. And Viv is punishing herself for not having insisted on driving him home. She told me last night that he was a bit tiddly, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “You spoke to Viv last night?”

  “I went round after she’d locked up.”

  “To the cottage?”

  “God, no. We had a drink in the bar after she’d made certain Grace was asleep. I don’t know why Viv’s so convinced that Grace would be traumatized if she knew there was anything going on between us.” Cain drank some more cider. “We’ve been sneaking about for months. I mean, Grace and I get on fine. Why should she be horrified for her mum to have a relationship?”

  “Maybe Viv thinks it would be hard for Grace if things didn’t work out between you,” Kincaid offered, hoping that sounded sensible. His head was beginning to swim a bit. Setting his half-finished cider down on the work top, he tried to concentrate on the important bit in what Cain had told him. “Mark, how long after Jack left did you arrive at the pub?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Five or ten minutes? Viv said she’d seen him off, then gone in and checked on Grace and changed out of her whites.”

  “And Viv hadn’t been anywhere else?”

  Cain frowned at him. “No. I just told you. Where the hell would she go? Why are you asking?”

  “Did you drive down to the pub?”

  “Of course I drove,” said Cain. “It was pouring buckets. Why are you asking me all these questions?” Cain sounded much less friendly now. “I thought you wanted to talk about Nell.”

  “Viv didn’t tell you, when you spoke to her about Bella earlier?”

  “I didn’t talk to her, I texted her. She was in the middle of service. Tell me what?”

  Cain would hear it soon enough, if not from Viv, then from Booth.

  “We”—Kincaid corrected himself— “that is, the police, think Jack Doyle was run down deliberately.”

  Kerry Boatman had done herself a favor and parked in the Marks & Spencer parking garage on the King’s Road. She quickly finished her shopping. Then, swinging her colorful paper bag, she’d walked west along the King’s Road until she reached Old Church Street. She found the address Gemma had given her halfway down the street, across from the Pig’s Ear, a pub well known as a hangout for coppers.

  The buzzer for the second-floor flat was labeled busby. Kerry took out her mobile and checked Gemma’s instructions again. She had the right address. She pushed the buzzer and the front door clicked open before she could identify herself over the intercom.

  As she climbed the stairs, a female voice came from above. “Oi, did you forget the blinking wine?” Looking up, Kerry saw a young woman with crayon-red short hair peering down at her. “Ow, sorry,” the young woman said in deepest Estuary. “I thought you was my mate. Who’re you?”

  “Police,” answered Kerry, a bit puffed as she reached the top landing. “I’m looking for Fergus O’Reilly’s flat.”

  “You’d better come in, then,” said the young woman. She stood back, allowing Kerry to step into a large sitting room, brightly lit by the west-facing bay window. The place seemed to be furnished entirely in Ikea and bean bags, with pride of place given to the monster flat-screen TV on one wall.

  Introducing herself, Kerry showed her warrant card even though she hadn’t been asked. People really should be more careful.

  The girl, who was wearing leggings and an oversized jumper that would have made Kerry’s daughter swoon, put out a chubby, be-ringed hand. “Valerie Busby. Yeah, he used to live here, that chef bloke. But he moved out about a year ago—some TV gig in la-la land, according to my landlady, who was right pissed off, I can tell you.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He didn’t pay his last month’s rent, did he? And he didn’t leave no forwarding address.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  September 2007

  To Viv’s enormous relief, the second cocktail of antibiotics checked her mother’s infection. But it was forty-eight hours before the doctors cautiously said she might be out of the woods. The doctors warned, however, that the severity of the infection might have damaged her heart, and that her recovery would be slow.

  Viv’s brother had gone back to university on the third day, but it was a full week before Viv could bring herself to leave her dad to manage her mum’s convalescence on his own.

  Having stopped to drop off a few things at her flat in Selwood Place, she walked across the King’s Road and into the restaurant kitchen just as evening service began.

  Fergus, whom she’d texted that she was on her way back, barely looked up from the starter he was plating. “Nice of you to put in an appearance,” he said, making it sound like she’d been off sunnin
g herself somewhere other than the chicken coop on her parents’ smallholding.

  It was Ibby who stopped what he was doing long enough to give her a hug and ask after her mum. She changed and slotted herself into her usual place on the line, but she could tell from the very first that the atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. It was so tenuous and indefinable, the synergy of a kitchen. When everything worked, it was an almost liquid thing—one station flowed smoothly into another and the communication on the line was seamless. But now their timing was off, tempers were frayed, orders were got wrong. Fergus was irritable and edgy, and she had a horrible feeling that he was back on the coke.

  At the end of a night that had seemed interminable, he walked out halfway through the scrub down after an argument with John, and didn’t come back.

  Exhausted and disappointed, she was fighting tears as she changed into her street clothes. Ibby tapped on the office door. “Viv, how about I see you home.”

  She hadn’t realized how much she’d been dreading that walk until he offered. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “Let me get my jacket.” The nights had turned chilly just in the short time she’d been gone—autumn was upon them.

  They made desultory chat about her stay in Evesham and that night’s near disasters in the kitchen until Viv swallowed and said, “What’s up with Fergus, then?”

  She could feel Ibby shrug as he walked in step with her. “Nerves, I think. First of October is coming up.” That was the date for the release of the next year’s Michelin guide.

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  “Yeah, well. You were his buffer. He’s been an absolute shit the whole time you’ve been gone. But there was no way he was going to admit that he missed you. To be honest, I think it scared the crap out of him.”

  The day after the first time she’d slept with Fergus, Viv had gone into work feeling like she must have a big red S for SHAGGED stamped on her forehead. It was only when no one seemed to notice that she realized they’d all assumed she and Fergus were having it off all along—and then it was too late to protest.

  “He’s been using again, hasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, well, he’s been out with the boys a few times.”

  “And the girls?”

  There was a long pause. She knew Ibby was trying to figure out how to answer. “Yeah, a couple of times,” he finally said.

  “Works fast, doesn’t he, our Fergus.”

  “I wouldn’t take it too seriously, Viv. They were just fluff.”

  Fluff. Entertainment. While she’d been afraid her mother was dying.

  Christ. What had she expected?

  They’d reached her flat. “Look, Ibby, thanks for—”

  “Can I come in for a drink, Viv?” He shuffled, hands in his pockets. “I won’t stay long.”

  Viv frowned at him. There was nothing flirtatious in his manner, but she couldn’t figure out what it was that he wanted. “Sure. Okay. Just a quick one.” And to be honest, she was glad of the company.

  In the summer, she’d moved from the flat she’d leased for years in Hammersmith, near the restaurant on the river where she’d first trained. Although the rent was steep because of the location, she loved the new flat, loved being able to walk to work. Or to Fergus’s—or so she’d thought.

  She unlocked the door and Ibby followed her in.

  “Nice,” he said as she switched on the lights. The sitting room was small, but she’d painted the walls a soft white, then centered her meager furniture on an Indian carpet in deep greens and blues. She’d hung some original artwork, pride of place over the mantel taken by a large watercolor of the rolling Cotswold Hills near Evesham.

  It was the kitchen that had sold her on the place. It was big enough to actually cook in, with a German gas range and a center table that could be used for prep. French doors led out to a small back garden.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, when she’d stashed her bag in the pokey bedroom.

  “Gin and ice, if you have any.”

  Viv fetched two tumblers from the kitchen and filled them with ice from a bag she kept in the freezer, then cut up a rather shriveled lime and added wedges to both glasses. Going to the restaurant dessert trolley that served as her drinks cart, she poured them both a generous slug of Bombay Sapphire and handed Ibby his glass. “Cheers.”

  Ibby sat on the sofa, but she switched on the gas fire, then stood with her back against the mantel.

  “I’m glad your mum is better,” he said. “Fergus said it was an infection.”

  “I’m surprised he remembered. But thanks.” Shivering as the first swallow of cold gin hit her stomach, she moved directly in front of the fire.

  Ibby swirled the ice in his glass, avoiding her gaze. He seemed hunched into the jacket he hadn’t removed, and Viv realized that she’d been so caught up in herself that she hadn’t realized how unhappy he looked. In spite of his grousing in the kitchen, Ibby was, she’d learned, a pretty decent guy as well as a good cook. Better than good, but she doubted he’d ever make head chef. He hadn’t the people skills needed to manage a kitchen.

  “The kitchen totally sucked without you,” he said. “We were in the weeds every night. I’d forgot how it was before you came. And you were right about the blow. Fergus and Danny have been out every night. Danny had a nosebleed during dinner service yesterday.” Danny, their maître d’, was Ibby’s closest friend. They’d come to O’Reilly’s together.

  “Christ.” Viv took another swallow of gin, hoping the alcohol would generate some warmth from the inside. “How bad was it? Tell me Michelin didn’t come again.”

  “I don’t think so. But there’s this.” Ibby pulled a folded newspaper clipping from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and stood to hand it to her. “I thought you should see it.”

  It was from the Times. Viv unfolded it with trepidation. It was not, however, a bad review, but an interview. The restaurant critic had quizzed Fergus about the success of O’Reilly’s new menu, asking him what had inspired his foray into Irish-influenced fine dining. Fergus had waffled on about the glory of Irish products, missing his homeland, even adding some nonsense about his poor dead mam’s cooking. But not once had he mentioned Viv.

  Melody slammed out the front door of the house. She knew she’d promised to drive Doug to the station, but he could bloody well get a taxi.

  Following in Andy’s footsteps, she walked up the drive, then stood, irresolute, at its end. She didn’t want to go down to Lower Slaughter. It would be too difficult to avoid Gemma and Duncan, and what if they had seen Andy, and then she’d have to explain? So she turned right and walked uphill, towards Upper Slaughter.

  The smaller of the two Slaughters, the village boasted only a church and a rather lovely country-house hotel, along with its few streets of cottages and the occasional B and B. Most of the village was hidden from the road—you could pass it without ever knowing you’d missed it.

  She turned on Rose Row, which ran downhill and into the village proper. But it also led to the church, and it seemed to Melody that the churchyard in the middle of a Sunday afternoon was one place where no one was likely to bother her. She’d played hide-and-seek round the giant yew hedges as a child, and as a teenager had sneaked into the churchyard for the occasional illicit drink and a snog with one of the boys from the village. She had no idea what had happened to him—he was probably married with three kids. It was she who’d rebelled against all those expectations, and look where that had got her.

  So involved was she in that morose train of thought that she was almost past the woman washing her Mercedes SUV in front of one of the cottages before she recognized her. She’d completely forgotten that Roz Dunning lived in the village.

  Looking up, Roz seemed just as startled to see her. “Melody, what are you doing here?” she said, sounding unexpectedly hostile. Roz, who was always so well turned out, looked cross and thoroughly untidy in cropped yoga bottoms and a baggy jumper, her hair escaping from its ponytail in damp
straggles.

  “Just taking a walk,” Melody answered, making an effort to be pleasant. “Good day to do something outside, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Roz pushed back a strand of hair, leaving a soapy streak on her forehead. “Must make the most of it, this time of year, mustn’t we? I’m glad the weather held for yesterday’s party.”

  Roz seemed friendlier, now that she knew Melody hadn’t come to interrupt her, but Melody could have kicked herself for having introduced that staple of polite and awkward English conversation—the weather. “You’ll be going back to London today?” Roz asked, and it was only then Melody realized that with Gemma and the kids staying over, she hadn’t worked out what to do herself. As little as she’d wanted company, the thought of driving back alone today, and of the empty flat that awaited her, seemed more than she could face.

  What if she stayed as well? At the moment she didn’t much care whether it would piss off her super if she didn’t come in to work in the morning.

  “Um, I’m not sure. My friends are staying over another day, so I may, too.” Roz had left the door of her cottage standing open and Melody glanced in, curious in spite of herself. She knew from her mum that Roz had been widowed quite young. She and her husband had owned an accountancy firm before her husband died of a heart attack, and Roz had sold the business. She hadn’t done too badly for herself out of it, Melody thought, considering the cottage and the car.

  “Well, I’d better get on, while the sun lasts.” Roz gestured at her bucket and the dripping sponge she’d set down on the car’s perfect silver paintwork.

  “Oh, right.” Melody felt surprisingly rebuffed. “Well, good luck with it, then.” She nodded and walked on to the church, with no more disturbance than the caws of the churchyard’s resident crows.

  Sunday lunch had wound down to a last few guests lingering over coffees and the dregs of their wine. Gemma had done whatever she’d been told by Bea or Ibby or the serving staff, and her feet were beginning to complain.