by Kate Adams
Death by Dark Roast
A Charleton House Mystery
Kate P Adams
Copyright © Kate P Adams 2019
The right of Kate P Adams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Dar Albert
For Mum and Dad,
who brought me into a world full of books.
Chapter 1
There were delicate macarons in a rainbow of colours, chocolates with ingredients from chilli to lavender, and even bacon. Enormous wheels of cheese, fresh handmade doughnuts, pies and pastries. I found old-fashioned puddings that brought childhood memories rushing back, like sticky toffee and spotted dick. I saw at least three kinds of gin and multiple stalls selling honey, olive oils and chutneys. The list of locally produced mouth-watering foods went on and on.
One stall really stood out for me, though: ‘Hayfield Haggis’. While many people looked down their noses at the dish made famous by the Scots, the traditional ingredients of oatmeal, liver, heart and lungs turning their stomach, I had already declared it as worthy of being my last meal, should such an occasion arise. In reality, most haggis no longer contains the more unappetising ingredients. Besides which, there are plenty more questionable items in things like hot dogs.
It doesn’t need to be Burns Night for me to savour the heavenly haggis, and I’m not a whisky drinker so I bypass that tradition too. Haggis for me is a delicious treat at any time of the year, and now I had found a local farmer who had turned her hand to making it. Although it was yet to open to the public, as far as I was concerned the Charleton House Food Festival was already a resounding success.
Tomorrow was to be the first day of the festival and today the gardens were a hive of activity as stallholders set up their banners and displays. Over one hundred little white tents formed two circles around the Great Pond at the rear of the house, all of the action being watched over by two enormous lions that were part of the central fountain design. If visitors looked up from their artisan burgers or churros long enough, they’d witness it shooting fifty metres into the air.
The house gardeners were on hand, both to help stallholders and to make sure no one damaged the beautiful flowerbeds which had taken months to carefully prepare and nurture, so I had taken the opportunity to escape my endless to-do list and get a sneaky advance look at the delights that awaited my stomach and wallet. Food was one of my passions, that and history, and I had been able to combine the two perfectly when I was offered a job at Charleton House, a five-hundred-year-old stately home in glorious Derbyshire.
After a career in London, running cafés and restaurants that were frequented mainly by suited and booted City types, I was now the manager of three lovely visitor cafés at the house, and regularly catering dinners and events for the owners, the Duke and Duchess of Ravensbury – the heads of the Fitzwilliam-Scott family. Right now, today’s visitors were being looked after by my teams, and I was enjoying the sunshine and teasing my taste buds with Mark, one of the house tour guides. I had been meant to meet someone else, but they had cancelled so I’d called Mark, and he hadn’t thought twice before agreeing to join me to wander around the stalls, making ourselves hungry. Mark had taken me under his wing when I’d arrived almost a year ago and had quickly become a friend as well as my fount of all knowledge.
‘It’s looking good, Sophie.’ Mark’s eyes were practically out on stalks. He loved food as much as I did and was more than happy to be my official taster – and recipient of free pastries and coffees when I was feeling generous. ‘There’s a couple of ale stalls which I’ll be checking out, and look! Raclette cheese grilled sandwiches. That’s tomorrow’s lunch sorted.’
The quickest path to Mark’s heart was definitely through his stomach.
I had spotted my first choice for lunch within minutes of arriving when I’d seen the sign for a hog roast. I’d be sure my serving came with a mountain of crackling, the delicious, crisply roasted rind being my favourite bit.
‘So who dared to cancel on you? Do they not realise how important and busy you are?’
I scowled and feigned annoyance at the healthy dollop of sarcasm in Mark’s suggestion that I was anything other than rushed off my feet. ‘Oh please, you were probably sitting in your office watching videos of cats online and hoping someone would call.’
‘How dare you! It’s dogs all the way for me.’
I laughed. ‘Apologies, videos of puppies. It was one of my suppliers, Bruce from the Northern Bean Company. They supply our coffee. He said something about managing to get a last-minute appointment with someone in the area that he couldn’t afford to miss out on. He sounded like he was in a foul temper, so I didn’t mind not seeing him. Anyway, our meeting was just a check in, nothing important.’
‘I thought you weren’t keen on them?’ Mark stretched his arm out to stop me walking into the path of a woman who was loaded up with enormous tubs of mustard and tomato ketchup, and not watching where she was going. Once she was out of the way, we set off again.
‘I’m not. I’m seriously thinking about jettisoning them and finding another supplier, but that’s going to be a difficult conversation so I don’t mind delaying it by a day. I said I’d meet him tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is often the busiest day of the week.’ Mark had put on his best orator voice so I knew he was quoting someone.
‘Who said that?’
‘No idea. It’s a Spanish proverb I think. Soph, over here. I know where we’ll find you for the next three days.’ I followed Mark until we were standing in front of a cherry-red VW campervan which had been beautifully transformed into a mobile coffee shop. Its roof had been raised so that staff could comfortably stand while working, the coffee equipment gleamed in the August sunshine, and shelves held bags of coffee beans and mugs that matched the colour of the van. The vision before me, combining my favourite colour with my favourite drink, was possibly the most stunning thing I had ever seen.
A young woman held up a remote control and the awning sprang to life, revealing red and white stripes. She was wearing a red t-shirt that matched the van, the sleeves rolled up revealing tanned, muscular arms. I guessed she didn’t have any issues lugging around big sacks of beans.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling.
‘Amazing, you’ve done an incredible job.’
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ With the awning in place, she jumped back into the body of the van. ‘We roast our own beans.’
‘Are you up and running? I don’t want to get in your way.’
She made a start on the coffee, her movements quick and well-choreographed. There was no excessive banging like you’d hear in chain cafés; this was an art.
‘It’s all good to go, it doesn’t take too much to set up. I’m Lucy Wright, and this is Kathy, my sister.’
A young woman with long, dark hair – a stark contrast to her sister’s short blonde cut – appeared at the counter having popped up from the floor of the van and gave a little wave before disappearing again.
‘Sophie Lockwood, I work here.’ I pointed over my shoulder in the direction of the house. ‘We’ve come for a sneaky peek.’ As I said
this, I realised that Mark was no longer beside me, having likely concluded that he was about to lose me to the bean that had an obsessive hold over my life.
I was handed a brown cardboard take-out cup that was emblazoned with a cherry-red logo saying ‘Signal Box Coffee’. A little drawing of an old-fashioned railway signal box took pride of place in the centre. It was rather adorable, but I wondered about its significance.
It seemed that Lucy had spotted the question in my face. ‘Our grandfather worked on the railways and had a replica signal box built in his garden. We used to play in it when we were kids. When he died, Kathy and I moved into the house and the signal box is where we roast the coffee.’
What a lovely story. As I took my first mouthful, I imagined how proud their grandfather would have been that his own interest was still playing a part in his grandchildren’s lives in some way.
The coffee was rich and smooth. It was exactly the kind of pick-me-up that I enjoyed.
‘Kenyan?’ I looked at Lucy.
‘Very good, yes.’
‘I’m a bit obsessed with coffee and Kenyan AA is my go-to.’ I took another mouthful, holding it there for a moment before swallowing. Only the best Kenyan beans were given an AA grade, the top tier of the country’s grading system. ‘This is particularly good. Nice and silky.’
‘I have Kathy to thank for that, she’s our buyer.’
Kathy had stepped out of the van by this point and reached out to shake my hand. She had a firm grip and her wrist was covered in dozens of small leather bands, a few brightly coloured string bracelets mixed in. They were all well-worn and looked like mementos of trips overseas.
She took over from her sister, filling me in on the company’s operation. ‘We might be a small business, but I wanted to make sure we had the best beans. I went to Kenya to learn as much as I could and this is what I came back with. Their growing conditions are fantastic. I’m glad you like it.’
Mark reappeared at my side and Kathy spoke to him as she started to move back towards the van. ‘Would you like some?’
‘No thanks. But I reckon you’ll be seeing a lot of this one over the weekend’ – he nodded in my direction – ‘not that she needs help feeding her addiction.’
Kathy laughed. ‘Well make sure you stop by whenever you need topping up.’
I thanked both Kathy and her sister, then steered Mark in the direction of more stalls.
We stepped carefully over trailing cables as the gardeners helped stallholders to connect to power supplies or hook up to enormous portable water tanks. There were still a number of vans arriving, their drivers trying to follow the map of the garden and figure out where they would be based for the duration of the festival. One vehicle in particular caught my eye: a large Airstream was being pulled into place by a Land Rover. The long silver bullet-like trailer had become all the rage a few years ago and was one of the coolest ways to explore the world, or your own back yard, but most people would need a second mortgage to be able to afford one of those things.
Demonstrating impressive skill, the driver reverse parked the trailer into position and three men jumped out of the Land Rover to start work on setting up. I checked out the writing on the side: ‘Silver Bullet Coffee’. It looked like a slick operation. With well-practised ease, the workers propped the side of the van open, unfurled the canopy and started to transform the inside into a professionally presented coffee shop, albeit a little too modern and clinical looking for my taste.
A dark-haired man with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up caught my eye. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve just had one.’ I held my coffee cup out to show him. ‘Tomorrow, maybe?’
‘Ah, the competition. Come on, just a taste. I have to make a few anyway, make sure everything’s set up properly.’ He spoke with confidence, like there was no question about my accepting a cup, not breaking eye contact with me until Mark spoke.
‘Of course she will.’ Mark stepped forward. ‘The stuff is practically running through her veins at the best of times. I’ve yet to see her reach a limit. Plus she’ll be so curious about it, she won’t rest until she tries it.’
The man laughed, leaned over the counter and offered me his hand. He had a firm grip.
‘Guy Glover, Silver Bullet Coffee. Nice to meet you both. Bear with me and I’ll rustle a couple up.’
I stepped back and looked again at the van. ‘This is quite the set up, you must be doing very well.’
‘Thanks, we are. We’ve no shortage of bookings. We’re particularly popular with music festivals – the young crowds love the trailer and we end up all over Instagram. It’s great publicity.’
He looked a little too old to be spending time at festivals; not quite middle-aged, but no longer part of the ‘young crowd’ either.
‘We’re not always so keen on the music, though,’ another member of the team grumbled through a smile as he carried a box past us. ‘I swear my ears are still ringing after that last one.’
Guy chuckled. ‘Yeah, he got stuck next to a rock stage last weekend. Sadly I couldn’t be there to help out.’
‘Sadly? You couldn’t find an excuse fast enough.’ The man carrying the box raised an eyebrow. He had a warm smile and appeared to be enjoying the banter with Guy. His Silver Bullet t-shirt was clinging to his body with sweat and he shook his head to get his hair out of his eyes. I avoided looking at Mark; I imagined his mouth hanging open as he pictured the slim, healthy-looking man minus the t-shirt.
Guy introduced us. ‘This is Ben. You might need to shout to get his attention until his hearing returns to normal.’
We introduced ourselves and took the coffee Guy was offering to us. Mark was right: I couldn’t recall ever having turned down a cup. Guy watched as we took our first sips; it was a bit too hot, but I nodded my approval as I had a second taste.
‘It’s good. Nutty, nice after-taste.’
‘Here,’ Guy handed over a small bag of beans, ‘take some with you, but be sure to come back and see us over the weekend.’ A third man had joined Guy and acknowledged me with a nod. ‘That’s Kyle, my business partner.’
Kyle looked as if he’d just got out of bed and needed a coffee more than any of us. I returned his nod, then turned back to Guy, thanking him. As we walked away, Mark bent down and whispered conspiratorially in my ear.
‘Go on, spill the beans, so to speak. What did you really think of their coffee? You weren’t exactly bubbling over with enthusiasm.’
‘Ha, you know me too well. Pedestrian at best. It was OK, but not very complex. It tasted no different to the dark roast we serve in the cafés and you know I’d love to replace that with something more interesting.’ I’d been so unimpressed with the coffee when I first arrived at Charleton House that I’d taken to keeping a stash of my favourite beans tucked away in a filing cabinet in my office, and I rarely touched the coffee we sold to the visitors.
As I mulled over the similarities between what I had just tasted and what I sold in the cafés, a weight slammed into my shoulder. I staggered into Mark, who managed to keep me upright as pain shot through my arm. It was as if I’d been hit by a truck.
As I steadied myself, I turned to see who had almost knocked me off my feet. A man in a gardens team t-shirt and baseball cap was striding with purpose towards the Airstream and clearly nothing was going to get in his way. I watched as he grabbed Ben’s arm and swung him round to face him. Either I was too far away or the gardener was keeping his voice down, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. However, I could see that his face had an expression of fury chiselled into it, and whatever he was saying to Ben wasn’t pretty and was probably delivered with a ton of angry spittle. Ben was saying nothing, just looking shocked.
As quickly as it had happened, it was over. The gardener spun round and marched back the way he had come, his face red, his hard eyes staring ahead. His fists were clenched into tight balls as though he was trying to control an urge to use them. Despite coming close enough for me to
hear his ragged breathing, he didn’t appear to see me and didn’t apologise for having barged into me.
I turned to look at Ben, who was watching the man walk away. Then with a look of resigned sadness, he shook his head and slowly carried on with his work.
‘Are you OK?’ I looked up at Mark and nodded. He was staring at the angry gardener’s retreating back. ‘Remind me never to annoy him; I’d hate to see those fists get some action. Come on, Soph, let’s go.’
Mark put an arm around my shoulders and we crunched our way up the gravel path towards the house.
Chapter 2
Charleton House is, from the outside at least, a glorious show of Baroque opulence and power, and could easily be mistaken for a royal palace. When the sun glints off its gilded window frames, it’s easy to imagine generations of family members looking out onto manicured lawns, colourful planting and delicately sculptured topiary, the gardens providing a restful break between plotting political takeovers and attempts to cosy up to the reigning monarch. The honey-coloured sandstone building has been the home of the Fitzwilliam-Scott family for over five hundred years, its 300 rooms bearing witnesses to history of both the romantic and scandalous kind. This weekend, the current Duke and Duchess would be using the magnificent house as a backdrop against which to showcase some of the finest food in the area, and I was like a kid at Christmas. I was going to need regular reminding that I was here to work and not just eat and drink my way through the three-day weekend.
Mark and I took a short cut through a door marked ‘Private’, making our way into the house and down a flagstone corridor. We cut across a courtyard that looked distinctly different from the rest of the building, as it and the ground floor rooms around it dated back to the original Tudor house, and gradually wound our way to the Library Café and my office.
The Library Café is my favourite of the three cafés I am responsible for, although I’m sure that, like parents with more than one child, I should never admit to having a favourite. As the name suggests, it’s decorated and furnished to look like the luxurious library of one of the earlier Dukes. Hundreds of books line the shelves that cover every wall; armchairs you could sink into rest in front of a large, ornate fireplace; tables of different sizes and shapes fill the rest of the room. It is popular with staff who want to hold meetings outside their office, or bring paperwork and escape their phones and emails, as well as visitors in search of lunch and a chance to rest their feet.