by Kate Adams
Today, the dark space was refreshingly cool after we’d been spending so much time in the heat of the garden. Mark plonked himself down in the nearest armchair and I sat on the arm of one opposite, not wanting to get too comfortable. My day was far from over.
Mark let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘The diet’s off, then, or at least delayed. I couldn’t see a food stall that wasn’t tempting.’
‘Diet?’ Wide-eyed, I looked him up and down. ‘You’re stick thin as it is. I’m trying to fatten you up with as much cake as possible, but I think you’ve got worms.’
‘That was what my mother used to say. As a kid, I’d stand in front of cupboards and “graze”, as she called it, but it never made any difference.’ He shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat. ‘Don’t stop trying, though, I’m sure the cake is helping in some way.’
‘Sophie, sorry to disturb.’ Tina, the supervisor who looked after the Library Café for me, appeared by my side. ‘Terry is here.’
‘Thanks, Tina, tell him I’ll be right out.’
‘Who is this Terry?’ enquired Mark, turning his head to give me a sly look. ‘Is he a thing of beauty that you’ve been hiding from me?’
‘Terry Mercer is a short, bald twenty-two-stone culinary genius who owns an award-winning restaurant in Sheffield and is catering tonight’s event. He’s not my type and I have no idea if I’m his. So you can curb that imagination of yours. I need to help him set up. Be off with you.’ I waved my arms in the direction of the door as though I was shooing out a cat. It had the desired effect and Mark got up to leave. Sadly, he didn’t get far before the leather-clad figure of Detective Constable Joe Greene walked in.
When I first started working at Charleton House almost twelve months ago, Joe was coming to the end of his time as a motorcycle police officer whose bike was regularly parked up outside the security office while he conducted ‘important police business’, also known as eating his way through my profits, in one of the cafés. Now, he was a plainclothes detective constable, but he didn’t seem to spend any less time dropping by the house. He was also Mark’s brother-in-law, so we were party to more local gossip than was probably legal. Between Joe and me, we playfully kept Mark on his toes.
Today Joe was in his own bike leathers and appeared to be on his way home.
‘Ello, 'ello, 'ello,’ was Mark’s version of a welcome. ‘Here to arrest me, officer?’
‘Society should be so lucky,’ Joe replied quickly. If anyone could give Mark as good as they got, it was Joe. ‘It’s pretty much the weekend, give or take, so I was wondering if you two were free to get it started with a visit to the pub?’
‘Sorry, chaps’ – I shook my head – ‘you’re on your own. I’m working the Food Festival drinks reception. Have a drink for me, though.’
‘I’m up for it.’ Mark made his way over to his brother-in-law. ‘I’m not going on the back of the bike, though. I consider myself highly adventurous of mind and spirit, less so of body.’
‘I couldn’t risk you raising the centre of gravity anyway.’
Joe and I both laughed. It was funny to imagine Mark’s tall, skinny frame sticking upright like the mast of a ship, while Joe crouched over the handlebars of his powerful sports bike. It was even funnier to imagine Mark carefully squeezing his perfectly groomed handlebar moustache under a motorcycle helmet without damaging it.
‘I’ll head home, drop off the bike and change, then I’ll get a taxi so I can have a drink. See you there in an hour?’
Mark turned towards me just as I was rearranging my hair in the glass of a framed picture on the wall. I wanted to look my best for tonight’s event, but I was short on time so I checked that my artistically ruffled short hair hadn’t gone flat in the heat.
‘I hate to be the one to tell you, Sophie, but you’ve got a few grey hairs coming through.’
I gave Mark a hard stare, trying not to laugh. Not only was I entirely grey but, despite me only being in my forties, the majority of it was already turning silver.
‘Idiot!’ Joe smacked Mark on the back of the head with one of his gloves. ‘That’s no way to talk to a lady.’
‘Lady?’ Mark exclaimed. ‘Since when has she…’ Joe hit him again. I laughed out loud.
‘To be fair, I’ve never claimed to be at all ladylike…’
The banter was interrupted by the sound of Joe’s phone. ‘DC Greene… Hey, Julie, what’s up?… That’s right, off for a pint… Oh, OK, I guess not. I’ll head straight there, thanks.’ Joe finished the call and looked forlornly at Mark. ‘Sorry, you’re drinking alone. Looks like I’m not off duty after all. There’s been a theft up at Berwick Hall.’ Nine-hundred-year-old Berwick Hall was another magnificent historic building that was open to the public, about thirty minutes’ drive from Charleton.
‘What’s happened? Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘A painting’s been stolen from a public area. No one noticed it was missing until they were closing up for the day, so I can only assume it wasn’t some enormous portrait. Either that or a visitor was carrying the world’s biggest handbag. I better head off. Are you going to the pub anyway, Mark? I might be able to catch up with you later.’
‘I’d like to. I’ll see if Bill wants to join me, turn it into a date night.’ Built like the ex-professional rugby player he was, Bill was the opposite of his skinny husband, and always enjoyed challenging stereotypes with his tough, no-nonsense broken-nosed looks.
Joe walked out the door, calling, ‘Hope to see you and my big brother later, then, Mark,’ over his shoulder. Time was ticking and I knew I had to get on. I packed Mark off to the pub, grabbed my notebook and went to find Terry; I’d already left him waiting too long.
Chapter 3
The Library Café kitchen looked out onto a lane that was out of bounds to visitors. Here staff took short cuts, deliveries were made, and it was where the security office was based. There were always people coming and going, but when an event was being set up, it became a hive of activity. You had to be careful to make sure you didn’t get hit by distracted people carrying furniture, trip over cables for lighting, or get run over by trolleys piled high with food or bottles of wine.
This evening’s event was pretty small and relaxed in comparison to some of those held within the more decadent rooms of the house. There would be no ballgowns or tuxedos, but there was still plenty to do. I’d collected Terry from his van on the lane and was walking him through to the Gilded Hall, a magnificent room with a grand staircase ideal for making speeches and representing the grandiosity of the house. The ceiling was home to a brilliant Baroque mural by Antonio Verrio, a favourite of kings and queens. The staircase, a grand carving of alabaster, marble and the local mineral Blue John, led up to a balcony that ran the full length of the south side of the room. Every inch of the elaborately decorated railing was covered in gold leaf, hence the name of the room. There was no doubting the wealth and status of the Fitzwilliam-Scott family throughout the centuries. It was an awe-inspiring space which could hearten or intimidate you, depending on your frame of mind and the tone of the event you were attending.
‘So the canapés will be served in here?’ Terry asked.
‘Yes, canapés and champagne in here. The Duke will make a speech, thank the main sponsors, then mingling will take place while the string quartet plays. At the same time, small groups will be taken off on short tours of the state rooms. The whole thing will be done and dusted by 8pm. Nice and simple.’
‘That’s easy for you to say’ – Terry rubbed his hand over the top of his head – ‘you’re used to this place. I followed all the food guidelines, but I’m still terrified that something I made will stain the floor if it gets dropped.’ All caterers were told what could and couldn’t be served in order to help protect the historic environment and objects, so no greasy or highly coloured foods. If guests were going to be standing, then they were limited to clear drinks such as champagne, white wine and water.
‘You’ll be fine; you’ve had
everything checked over. If our event manager is happy then you’re good to go.’ As if on cue, the Charleton House event manager, Yeshim, arrived, a little flustered and tucking her shirt in as she ran across the room.
‘Sorry, sorry, I was stuck on the phone with a supplier. Everything OK, Terry? You look terrified! Don’t worry, your food is great, and the Duchess loves your restaurant. Thanks for looking after him, Sophie, I’ll take over from here.’ Yeshim had incredible energy levels and rarely seemed to take a breath. She was great fun to work with, but exhausting company. I usually made sure I had an enormous mug of coffee with me when I joined her for meetings.
Even though I wasn’t catering this event, I’d offered to help out. As a relatively new member of staff, I took every opportunity to learn how the place ran. I was also still in the starry-eyed stage of my career at Charleton where I’d happily sacrifice a Friday night to work, even if it wasn’t necessary.
The event was starting to take shape. The string quartet had arrived and was setting up in an alcove at the bottom of the stairs. An electrician was adding a few additional lights and making the room feel a little more dramatic, not that it took much. Ellie Bryant, a member of the conservation team, hovered in the background, making sure no one did anything that could cause any damage. She might resemble a waif-like creature who would prefer to disappear into the background, but I have witnessed Ellie launch herself at a teenager who, for a bet, had clambered over a rope and made himself comfortable in a an eye-wateringly beautiful gilt wood armchair designed by William Kent for the Third Duke in the eighteenth century. Ellie was passing in time to see his bottom reach the padded seat covered in a navy blue damask and gave him a verbal dressing down which probably left him in therapy for years.
A group of tour guides made their way upstairs, ensuring that the rooms they planned on taking guests through didn’t hold any surprises, the paintings they would be talking about were still in place, and nothing had been removed for cleaning or loaned to exhibitions. I pictured my favourite tour guide, Mark, in the Black Swan, enjoying a pint of local ale and a mountain of fish and chips while I would be spending the next hour helping to line up 150 wine glasses, passing the electrician his tools, finding some safety pins to help a waitress secure her skirt after the zip had broken, and fetching a plumber to unblock a toilet. It was a good job I didn’t aspire to a life of glamour.
Eventually, calm descended alongside a gentle air of anticipation. Being as this was such a small event, none of us were on edge. Occasions like this gave us the chance to savour our surroundings almost as much as the guests did.
As the guests started to arrive, serving staff offered champagne round, the bottles having been opened in a back corridor to avoid flying corks damaging precious artwork. The Duke and Duchess worked the room, welcoming everyone in their usual down-to-earth fashion and thanking them for their support. Terry’s canapés were clearly a hit, and I watched as a couple of the guests cut across the room and homed in on a server who was carrying their favourite little taste bomb to grab a few more. Honey coloured lighting glinted off gilt mirror frames and the string quartet sent waves of Beethoven out across the gradually filling room.
‘So far, so good.’ I jumped as Yeshim appeared by my side. ‘Terry finally calmed down, with the help of a glass of champagne, but I’m going to have to keep an eye on him. It went down far too quickly. The last thing we need is him sliding down the banisters as the Duke makes his speech. There he is.’ She pointed across the room to a slightly wobbly looking Terry. ‘And yes, there’s another glass of champagne in his hand.’
I looked over in time to see Terry exchange an empty champagne glass for a full one as a server with a tray of drinks walked by.
‘Oh no, there’s the Duchess, and she’s joining him.’ Standing beside Yeshim was like having my own private sports commentary, and I wasn’t sure I could get a word in if I tried. ‘No, he’s not… he won’t… he has.’ Yeshim let out a loud, exasperated sigh as Terry put his arm round the Duchess’s waist and laughed far too loudly at something she said. Like a bird of prey, Yeshim swept in, had a quiet word in the Duchess’s ear and steered her away from Terry’s grasp, no doubt having thought of someone she could claim it was important the Duchess meet.
Well done, Yeshim.
As I scanned the party, my eyes rested on a man in a dark suit talking to the Duke and gesturing around the room. It was Detective Inspector Mike Flynn, who had got wind of my involvement in police business during the summer and wasn’t my biggest fan. I wasn’t surprised to see him here. Joe had told me just how ambitious Flynn was, and cultivating a friendship with someone as important as the Duke was no doubt part of the plan to help him shoot up the ranks.
DI Flynn scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on me. He raised his glass of champagne in my direction, but the expression on his face remained indifferent. It looked as if we wouldn’t become friends anytime soon.
A hush came over the crowd and I noticed that the string quartet had stopped playing. Yeshim was talking to the Duke at the bottom of the stairs. A broad-shouldered, tall and handsome man, he had the stature and presence of one of the stags that roamed the Charleton estate. Wearing a navy blue pinstriped suit that was perfectly tailored to his figure, his pale-blue shirt open at the collar, he’d chosen to go without a tie. He cut a classical figure that matched his exquisite surroundings: a man of power, influence and style.
The Duke climbed halfway up the stairs, where he turned and waited patiently for silence to descend. With a charming, welcoming smile, he scanned the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is such a pleasure to welcome you all to Charleton this evening. My wife and I gain so much joy from sharing this wonderful house with others and I thank you all for joining us. The Charleton Food Festival is one of my personal highlights of the year, and here in Derbyshire we are fortunate to have some of the country’s finest artisan producers. This is a fabulous opportunity for them to showcase their talents, and we are so grateful to you, our many sponsors, for helping to make this possible…’
As the Duke spoke, my mind started to wander. It wasn’t that he was a poor public speaker; just the opposite, in fact. He was an accomplished speech writer, and although his cut-glass accent was a throwback to more socially divided times, with the Duke it was just another part of his charming and gentlemanly image rather than an attempt to make his audience feel that they were in the presence of someone superior to them. But I’d heard him speak on many previous occasions and this was a fairly run-of-the-mill event, so I was able to tune out what he was saying.
I found myself wondering about the gardener who had barged into me earlier in the day, and I instinctively rubbed the spot on my arm where we’d collided. I was bound to have a bruise by now. It was a long time since I’d seen someone look quite so angry; he had been a rather frightening figure as he’d barrelled past Mark and me. Whatever Ben had done, it must have been pretty awful.
My thoughts were interrupted by laughter as the crowd reacted warmly to something the Duke had said.
‘…So please, help me prove my wife wrong, just once.’ He smiled in the direction of the Duchess who was laughing at his comments. ‘Now, please enjoy the champagne and delicious food, take one of the tours with our extremely knowledgeable guides and have a lovely evening. Thank you again for all of your support.’ He raised the champagne glass he had been cradling in his hand, smiled and slowly nodded his appreciation. His words were met with rapturous applause, and as he descended back into the crowd, the string quartet began to play again.
‘I’ve never seen him fail to capture an audience.’ A deep voice came from over my right shoulder and I turned to see a smiling ruddy-faced man. Wearing a checked shirt and tweed jacket, he looked as if he’d just come in from a hunt. ‘Malcolm,’ – he offered me his hand – ‘Malcolm De Witt. I was up at Oxford with the Duke. He was forever jumping on tables to make speeches after a drink or two. It’s good to see he’s calmed d
own a little from his student days.’
‘Sophie, I work here. You’re a friend of the family?’
‘I was. We’re just getting reacquainted after a few years in the friendship wilderness. No one’s fault, adult life just gets in the way. We used to ski together every year when the children were young, ran into each other at a university alumni event a couple of months ago and he invited me to stay for the week as I was due to be in the area on business.’ Malcolm had a far off look in his eyes, like he wasn’t fully engaging with me but just wanted to kill the time with someone – anyone. He was nice enough, though.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Many times. A gang of us used to come up for a month every summer while we were students, got up to all sorts of mischief. Then there was the occasional Christmas party. Once his father died and Alex became Duke, he got too busy and my work took me overseas so we lost touch.’ He was watching as the Duke entertained a group of fawning ladies who were gathered around him like twelve-year-olds around a pop star. ‘Look at him. We’re exactly the same age, give or take a week or two, and yet he looks twenty years younger than me. I, on the other hand, am carrying every single one of my sixty years.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Well, we only get one go around, may as well enjoy it. Lovely chatting, Sophie, I’m sure I’ll see you again.’ He drained his champagne glass, and with that, he was off, homing in on some bite-sized cheesecakes that were being offered to the guests.