by Kate Adams
‘Well, he’s supposed to be coming round for dinner tonight, so I’ll see what I can get out of him. Bill has promised to make his favourite Eton Mess for dessert, but I might threaten to withhold it if he doesn’t tell us what he’s got so far. Do you want to come? There’ll be plenty of food, and I could swear our friendly local bobby gets a twinkle in his eye every time he sees you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mark, there’s no twinkling of any kind, nor will there be. We’re friends, end of story.’
Mark pouted like a four-year-old. ‘Spoilsport. Well, are you coming tonight?’
‘Thanks, but no. I need a quiet night in after all this drama.’ I dragged myself out of the chair. ‘Promise me, no twinkle references over dinner. Don’t go putting any ideas in Joe’s head.’
‘Like I said, spoilsport.’ Mark stood up, spun dramatically and marched off towards the door. I knew I’d see him later; he could only go for a couple of hours before coming begging for free baked goods.
I liked to work in the Library Café kitchens, overlooking the back lane. Sometimes colleagues would stop for a chat through the window if they saw me there, and I felt like I had a reasonably good handle on life at the house as a result. Despite the festival being closed, not many visitors had made it to the Library Café yet, and Tina and her team were more than able to cope with those who had come in, so I’d decided to spend the afternoon trying out a couple of recipes.
I wasn’t a trained pastry chef. I’d been employed at Charleton House to manage the cafés, and most of the cooking and baking was done by a husband-and-wife team Gregg and Ruth Danforth and the staff who worked for them, but I loved baking, and if I managed my time well, I was able to help out. Ruth was a great tutor and my skills were improving all the time, so I’d also been able to cut a few costs this way.
Right now, I was working on a very special project. Ruth had handed me the intimidating job of making the Duchess’s birthday cake: an over-the-top super-indulgent chocolate creation. Ruth had been giving me hints and tips as I practised over the last couple of weeks, and I wanted to be able to present my final recipe to her on her return from holiday in a week’s time.
I was measuring out ingredients when I spotted a familiar figure walking down the lane. It was the gardener who had almost knocked me to the ground and shouted at Ben yesterday afternoon, and he looked surprisingly tired for a guy with a healthy physique and muscles that popped out from under his t-shirt sleeves. I hadn’t put two and two together before now, but an angry gardener and a dead body seemed, under the circumstances, to add up to a pretty reasonable four.
Chapter 6
I could feel four little feet pressing into the small of my back. I was cosy and had no desire to move, but the sun was streaming into my bedroom, and even with my eyes closed it was too much.
I rolled over, much to the frustration of Pumpkin, the enormous tabby cat who was under the sheets and pressing her feet against me like a toddler who had taken up half the bed and was after even more space. She let out an angry meow and repositioned herself, the end of her tail flicking back and forth. I was in trouble.
After climbing out of bed, I picked the book I’d been reading up from the floor, where it had fallen when I’d dozed off, rubbed the top of Pumpkin’s head, pulled the sheets up over her and left her to it. She was most definitely in charge of the household, and I didn’t want to disturb Her Majesty any more than was necessary. Especially on a Sunday, one of her seven days of rest.
I managed to make my way to the kitchen without falling down the stairs: a daily accomplishment which never fails to amaze me. Without my first coffee of the day, I doubt I could even tell anyone my name. On autopilot, I ground some beans in an antique cast-iron coffee grinder and set off the espresso maker. Pumpkin, who had deigned to venture down into the servants’ quarters for breakfast, head-butted my leg as she passed by. I seemed to have been forgiven for the too-early wake-up call.
I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the logo on the side of the paper bag the coffee beans had come in: ‘Signal Box Coffee’. My finished espresso was as good as the coffees Lucy had served me from the campervan, the quality was consistently high, and I knew I’d found my new favourite. Through bleary eyes, I registered the way the red of the Signal Box logo matched my red espresso maker and the enormous red fridge in the corner of the room. Everything about Lucy and Kathy’s business suited me; it would be great to serve their coffee in the cafés.
I didn’t know whether it was the espresso or the force of my idea, but I was wide awake. I wanted to start making changes in the cafés and this would be one of them: I was going to ask Signal Box Coffee to come on board and supply the coffee for Charleton House.
With that decision made, I found a spring in my step. I decided to forgo breakfast and made my way straight to the bathroom to get ready. Oh God, that was a mistake. The idea of looking in the mirror before I’d had my first coffee of the day had been a step too far, but not doing so before I put my glasses on was an unforgivable error. Most days, I thought that my spiky silver-grey hair looked cool; this morning, I just looked as if I had shoved my fingers in a plug socket. Well at least I didn’t need to stress about roots showing or the cost of getting my hair dyed. This morning I might be capable of frightening small children, but it was all me and I loved it.
‘Where’s that scarf I gave you? I’ve told you before, you need brightening up. It’s a beautiful summer’s day and you look like you’re off to a funeral.’
Joyce Brocklehurst was our brash retail manager and she wasn’t one to beat around the bush. To be fair, she did have a point. After she had given me a bright colour-splotched scarf a couple of months ago, I had made a half-hearted attempt to look more like the creative café manager for an art-loving stately home, but it had soon petered out. My argument was that I rarely had time to go shopping and my wardrobe still reflected my previous life, managing restaurants and cafés in the business districts of London. Joyce’s wardrobe, on the other hand, would probably require sunglasses and an active imagination. Today, her neck-breaking lime-green stilettos were paired with a peacock-blue pencil skirt that was so tight, I was amazed she could walk, and showed off her trademark ‘visible panty line’. A purple silk shirt displaying an impressive cleavage finished the look.
Joyce had joined me in the Garden Café to see what gossip I could impart. After making us both a coffee, a smooth, creamy latte for Joyce and an espresso for myself, I walked behind her to a table, unable to take my eyes off her blonde bouffant hair which, combined with her heels, must have added almost a foot to her height. Every time I saw her, I wondered how she was able to walk around a house with cobbled courtyards, gravel pathways and uneven flagstones and not break an ankle every time she left one of the shops.
As we made our way through the café, more than a few eyes turned to take her in. Peacocks are not an uncommon sight in the stately homes of England, and it seemed Joyce was trying to ensure that Charleton House wasn’t left out. We tucked ourselves away in a corner and she focused on me with her piercing blue eyes.
‘So tell me, is it true that the body you found belonged to the young man who worked in that silver coffee van?’ She peered at me over the china cup, her little finger raised in the air.
‘It wasn’t me who found him. Poor Robin from gardens was the one who stumbled across him, but yes, it was Ben.’
Joyce nodded. ‘Ben Hines. I remember him running around in his football kit, muddy knees n’all. Always very polite.’ That information surprised me, but then I knew he was local, so it shouldn’t have been an enormous stretch that someone at Charleton would have known him. ‘He went to school with my youngest daughter. I vaguely recall she had a crush on him, he was a nice lad. Such a shame.’
‘If he was such a nice lad, how come he’s ended up dead? Surely not everyone could have liked him.’
Joyce took her time placing the cup on the saucer, deep in thought.
‘I’ve been wondering that since I hea
rd. He must have been twenty-nine by now, so we’re talking thirteen years since he was at school. I did hear that he’d got himself into a bit of trouble a while back…’
‘Debt?’ I interrupted, thinking back to what Kyle had said.
‘Yes, that’s it. We’re not talking huge amounts of money, but enough for people to be unhappy with him. That was a while ago, though.’
‘Do you think someone came back to collect and killed him when he didn’t pay up?’
She looked at me intently for a moment or two. ‘Sophie, dear, this is Derbyshire. The days of sheep rustling are long gone, and the Mafia have never, as far as I’m aware, taken control of any criminal underworld in the valleys. At worst, he’d have received a thumping round the back of the pub; at best, a cold shoulder or two. No, he was small time, and as far as I know, he’d sorted himself out.’
‘But it’s such an odd location for a random theft, we’re in the middle of a country estate. It’s not like someone could just happen to be passing and see an opportunity.’
‘Think of all the dog walkers, hikers, tourists, locals out for a drive. There are no gates on the roads that run through here; locals use them to take short cuts on their commutes. That wouldn’t explain how they got into the grounds of the house, I admit, but almost anyone could be in the general area.’
That didn’t ease my mind. If this was an opportunist murder by someone who just wanted to empty the till and run, then maybe Charleton wasn’t as idyllic as I had always thought.
Joyce appeared to read my mind. ‘Still, it’s a darned sight safer than that London and you must have been used to all the crime after, what? Fifteen years living there? Muggings on every street corner; having to walk everywhere clinging to your handbag in case someone snatches it; drinks being spiked in pubs; no one giving up their seats to old ladies on the bus. It’s no wonder you moved back north.’
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the mention of old ladies, but resisted the urge to make a joke at Joyce’s expense. I’d rather be mugged on a street corner than offend Joyce with an ill-judged quip about her age.
‘It’s really not that bad. Anyway, Charleton looks far more dubious this morning. Police still crawling all over the garden; photographers trying to get past security to find a vantage point in the house where they can take pictures of where it happened.’
‘Ah, but these are special circumstances. It happens all the time in London.’
‘You’re spending too much time reading scare stories on the internet. I loved London; I was just ready to come home.’
‘Well, I’m a born-and-bred Derbyshire lass,’ Joyce replied with pride, slipping back into the northern accent that she was, ironically and unsuccessfully, forever trying to tame, especially around the Duke and Duchess. ‘I’ve never left and I never will. There isn’t anythin’ you can get in London that you can’t get up ’ere, whether it’s style, food or culture, and all in a much better setting.’
In many ways I couldn’t argue with her, and when it came to style, she certainly didn’t have any competition. Mainly because she’d scared it all off.
‘You can lead a quiet life round here if you want, Sophie, although you’re still a bit too young for the pipe and slippers routine. Whatever you returned north looking for, it was a good move. Joe will figure out who killed poor Ben and we can all go back to smelling the roses, or your baking, without having to worry about a killer being on the loose, which is a permanent possibility in London.’
‘Was that meant to be comforting, Joyce? The words “killer on the loose” aren’t going to help me sleep tonight.’
‘Don’t be soft, girl. Knock back a glass of something strong before you go to sleep, then when you wake, put on your brightest, sunniest outfit. Works for me when I’ve got something on my mind.’ I looked at her lime-green fingernails and her matching earrings – solid discs at least an inch wide that swung with every movement. Now I was keen to see her choice of outfit on a day she was feeling depressed. That thought alone perked me up and I smiled at her, grateful that this slightly bonkers, slightly scary, but wonderful rainbow of a woman had entered my life.
‘That’s more like it.’ She beamed back at me. ‘Now, another slice of cake each and all will be well in the world.’
Chapter 7
Within Charleton House are two outdoor courtyards. From above, the building looks like a square-cornered figure of eight. One of these courtyards is cobbled and dates back to the original Tudor building – it is said that Henry VIII dropped by during one of his processions north. On one wall is a stone archway, housing a heavy wooden door, low enough to cause taller visitors to duck their heads as they make their way into the room beyond. Previously a wine cellar, on normal days it is full of replica wine barrels.
Today, however, the space had been transformed into a seventeenth-century coffeehouse to complement the Food Festival, the wine theme having already been brought to life the previous year. The windows had been covered up and faux candles flickered along the windowsills. A small amount of ‘smoke’ hovered in the air and a long table dominated the room. Visitors of all ages sat around the table, and others stood around the walls awaiting the eleven o’clock performance. With my own coffee obsession, there had been no way I was going to miss this. I was keen to learn more about the bean that kept me functioning and pleasant to be around.
The chatter of the crowd hushed as a tall man ducked under the doorway and made his way into the room. He was a startling figure in a low-crowned beaver-fur hat trimmed with ribbons and feathers. Below that he wore a wig, which must have been unbearably hot in the August heat. As he came down the stairs, I got a good look at the rest of him. He was wearing a suit of biscuit brown wool: a long straight-cut knee-length coat with elbow-length sleeves over a waistcoat almost as long. His full-sleeved shirt was worn with a cravat tied in a knot at his throat. Breeches that finished just below the knee over stockings and square-toed shoes tied at the instep with ribbons finished the look, and his entire outfit was dotted with knots of brown and beige silk. In one hand, he carried a pair of gloves; his other rested on the hilt of a sword that hung from his waist.
He scanned the room, a smile forming on his lips. ‘How wonderful to see so many enquiring minds, seeking knowledge and good conversation over that most virtuous of drinks, coffee. I see some familiar faces, but for those of you who don’t know me, I am Samuel Pepys, diarist and politician. I have of course filled my life with other noble professions, but I won’t bore you with that for now, for we are here in the year of Our Lord 1676, in this simple yet welcoming coffeehouse, to debate matters of the day, learn of mathematics and science. If we feel the need for something a little more light hearted, we can take bets on a bear fight. You can even get a haircut – not something I’ll be doing, of course.’
He smiled and winked as he tossed some of the long hair of his wig over his shoulder.
‘You see, ladies and gentleman,’ – he paused – ‘although I am surprised to see ladies in here. Normally the fairer sex never frequent a coffeehouse; it’s really not the place for you respectable ladies. Do you know’ – he spoke quietly, sharing his surprise with the crowd – ‘there are some women who would like to see coffeehouses closed down, saying that their menfolk are wasting their time here, that coffee weakens us, turns us into babbling fools and makes us unable to… well, erm, fulfil our, shall we say, manly duties.’
He slowly circled the table, stopping from time to time to make a point or single out a visitor, looking them in the eyes and bringing them into his confidence.
‘I find coffee a marvellous stimulant, and it contains, so I am told, many medicinal qualities. It will cure you of gout and scurvy. Children in particular can be found in much better health after consuming it. However, I don’t recommend drinking it after dinner, unless you wish to avoid sleep for some hours. But it’s not just the coffee that brings me here to this “penny university”, for that is what the coffeehouses are sometimes called. I assu
me you all paid your penny at the door in order to enter? And once you’re here, the learning available to you makes them worthy of that name. Literature, politics, science – just sit down next to a stranger and discuss any subject that takes your fancy. Revolutions have been planned, scientific experiments carried out. It is said that one Isaac Newton dissected a dolphin on a table in a coffeehouse that goes by the name of Grecian.’
He was pointing at the table, indicating the length of the dolphin and getting the visitors to picture the scene.
‘My personal favourite is Will’s near Covent Garden. It is a particularly literary crowd that you’ll find in attendance and it is there that you will find me enjoying a dish of coffee. I’m not short of choice, however, as we are well on our way to having over a thousand coffeehouses in London alone.’
As Samuel Pepys talked to the crowd, a few visitors quietly came and went through the door in the corner. One of them caught my eye: Kathy from Signal Box Coffee, the quieter of the two sisters. She looked tired and distracted. Tucked away in the shadows, she watched the performance with glassy eyes, but didn’t really seem to be taking it in. She just stared in the general direction of Pepys.
As I returned my attention to the action, I spotted another familiar face enter the room: Guy Glover. This was turning into some sort of coffee roasters’ reunion. He scanned the room, paying no attention to Pepys and his performance. Spotting Kathy, he made his way over to her, stood by her side and whispered into her ear. She jumped and turned, realising who it was. Her face taking on an expression of fury, she immediately turned and left. With a look of amusement, Guy shook his head and casually leant against the wall, clearly in no rush to follow her.
I turned back to hear Samuel Pepys asking a visitor if he could have his seat as his feet were weary. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, he directed his comments at those around the table. He was telling them all of King Charles II’s 1675 proclamation, which attempted to suppress coffeehouses.