Death by Dark Roast

by Kate Adams

  ‘You see, my friends, his fear was that political debate, which had previously only been the activity of the elite, was now being encouraged among the middle classes, and that coffeehouses were hotbeds of revolutionary talk and possible violence against authority, including the Crown. He lost that battle. I have a feeling that coffeehouses will be here for a very long time to come. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to fetch my wife. I would never allow her to join me in a coffeehouse and she has the good sense not to ask. It has been a pleasure speaking with you all.’

  With that, he swept out of the door and disappeared. The visitors applauded and gradually left the room until only a few remained to read through the replica seventeenth-century newspapers and pamphlets that were scattered on the table.

  Guy had already gone.

  Inspired by my encounter with Samuel Pepys, I felt the need for another coffee. Making myself a latte, very different from the gritty, overly sweetened jet-black sludge that Pepys himself would have found pleasure in, I took the mug into my office, hidden behind a door at the back of the Library Café kitchen.

  I immediately regretted it. One of the quirks of working in a building like Charleton House is the varying degrees of temperature you experience throughout the year. In the winter, my office is cold enough to freeze ice cubes; in the summer, when I could do with those ice cubes, I feel like I’m sitting in one of my ovens. At least my matchbox-sized office is homely and close to some of my team. I have colleagues who are in attic spaces and can’t stand up straight. One shares a corridor with a photocopier and another is convinced his room is haunted by the ghost of an old housekeeper. He never works beyond six o’clock at night, when he swears she comes in and tries to share the desk with him.

  Right now, however, I felt no sympathy for any of them as a bead of sweat ran down my forehead, and I’d only been in my office long enough to turn on my computer.

  ‘Sophie, have you got a minute?’ Chelsea called from the end of the kitchen. With no regret, I abandoned my office, went out to the café and found myself face to face with Kathy.

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had heard anything about when, or if, the festival will be reopening. It’s just, I saw you with that detective, and no one else is telling us anything. Lucy thought it was worth seeing if you knew anything – maybe there has been a staff memo?’

  ‘No, I’d be the last to know. I’m sure the police will hand the gardens back over to us as soon as they can.’

  ‘I guess so. We saw the Airstream being taken away on a trailer, so maybe it won’t be too long. Sorry to disturb you, we’re just frustrated. This weekend was a big opportunity for us.’

  She looked more than just frustrated; she was pale and distracted.

  ‘Is everything OK? You look a bit under the weather; can I get you a drink or something to eat?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m just tired, and this has all been a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Did you know Ben well?’

  ‘In a way. We often ended up at the same events. I can’t believe what’s happened. He was one of those gentle giants, built like a rugby player, but really sweet and kind. We always helped each other out if we ran out of anything. He gave us a hand when we ran out of petrol once and couldn’t get off site at a concert.’

  I decided to chance my arm. ‘What about Guy? Did he work with Ben a lot or was he mainly in the background of the operation?’

  At the mention of Guy’s name, she met my eyes and froze, then glanced away.

  ‘I better go. I’ve left Lucy on her own.’ With that, she was off and out of the door, and I was left staring after her, a little surprised at how quickly she’d managed to scurry away. Something was going on between her and Guy, and as much as it was none of my business, I was curious to know more.

  ‘No gin? Really? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’

  Mark and I had decided to end the day at the Black Swan, a beautiful English country pub that would look at home on the front of a postcard. It was our nearest pub in the pretty village of Hadshaw, just within the boundary of the Charleton House estate, and was another property owned by the Fitzwilliam-Scott family. It was everything that an English pub should be and we were lucky to be able to call it our local. I was doubly lucky to live only a couple of doors away, so getting home safely was never a problem. Not that I often over indulge; I value my early mornings far too much.

  Mark and I had found a table to sit at out in the garden. It was a warm evening, and to my mind it was worthy of a glass of Pimm’s. As has become the tradition, I only ever indulge in this quintessentially English gin-based liqueur when the sun draws me outside without the need for a sweater. Combined with lemonade, the glass filled with chopped cucumber, oranges, lemons and strawberries, and a few mint leaves, the drink screams ‘English summer’.

  ‘There’s gin in it, so near enough,’ I responded.

  ‘But I enjoy picking one out for you, finding the most ridiculous name.’ Mark knew I was attempting to try every one of the seventy gins that the Black Swan served. ‘You’re ruining my evening.’ He moved off towards the door, ducking to avoid the roses that were hanging low off the trellis that surrounded it.

  I closed my eyes…

  ‘You’re snoring.’

  I woke with a start as Mark put the glasses on the table. ‘What?’

  ‘You were snoring. The poor family at the next table had to move, it was so bad.’ He gestured to the family two tables over, making sure he spoke loudly enough for them to hear.

  ‘I was not.’

  I turned to see the family all trying to stifle laughs, looking back and forth between them and Mark a couple of times.

  Mark eventually smirked. ‘You are so easy, of course you weren’t.’

  I smiled sheepishly at the family, and then turned back to Mark, stealing the bag of crisps he had brought out with him as punishment. We enjoyed an easy silence as we savoured the first few mouthfuls of our drinks.

  Mark was the first to break the peace. ‘Do you think the two thefts are related? Berwick Hall and here at the house? It’s too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘True, but they’re very different. Berwick Hall was during the day when visitors were around. Or at least, Joe got the call during visitor hours, so I assume that’s what happened. The St Ives bowl was taken during a private evening event, so only specific people were allowed onsite. It would have been a mighty coincidence for someone working the event to have also been a visitor at Berwick.’

  ‘True.’ Mark thought for a little while. ‘And the body?’

  ‘Joe’s first thoughts were a robbery. Ben did owe some people money, but only small amounts and he seemed to be well liked.’

  Mark took a big gulp of beer. ‘Maybe we’re dealing with an over-caffeinated rivalry.’ His voice was dripping in comic conspiracy. ‘The Signal Box women are tired of being in the shadow of the big shiny Airstream, their coffee sales are falling as their cute campervan just can’t compete with the hypnotising gleam of the silver bullet. One of them snaps and suffocates Ben in a bag of beans. The autopsy is going to reveal hundreds of coffee beans in his ears, up his nose and down the back of his throat. The only clue will be that a single bean among all those found on him will come from the Signal Box.’ He looked at me through half open eyes, as though assessing a potential suspect.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’ I asked. He had certainly seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of his little fantasy. He shrugged and returned to his normal voice.

  ‘It’s a thought, I’ll run it past our resident detective in the morning. He’ll be forever in my debt for solving the crime.’

  I loved Mark, but he could be an idiot sometimes. ‘Well the first problem you have is he was killed with a portafilter, not beans.’

  ‘But that still means he was killed by coffee, sort of. I keep telling you that too much of that stuff isn’t good for you.’

  I spluttered as my laughter coincided with a
mouthful of Pimm’s, then moved him on to something more serious.

  ‘Kathy wasn’t happy today. Each time I saw her, she looked miserable and on edge. Something is certainly bothering her.’

  ‘The one with the long hair? I didn’t notice. I remember seeing her in here on Friday night, though. She must be staying here as she went up to the guestrooms.’

  Not only was the Black Swan the sweetest English pub with a killer gin list, but it also had the most exquisitely designed guest rooms. The Duchess herself had led the interior design, and I’d experienced one of the rooms first hand when I’d come for my interview at Charleton House and needed somewhere to stay the night before. I hadn’t wanted to leave the next morning, the room was so nice, but I figured trying to claim squatter’s rights wouldn’t have gone down too well with my new employers.

  ‘But they’re local, aren’t they? I don’t see why they’d book to stay here during the festival.’ I instinctively looked around the garden, just in case either of the sisters was there and could hear us.

  ‘It’s not uncommon. Some just decide it’s easier and like the idea of not having to cook for themselves, or they want to make a weekend of it and enjoy being on the estate the whole time. If there are celebrity guests who aren’t important enough to stay with the Duke and Duchess, they’ll be put up here.’

  I thought about what Mark had just said. There was one easy way to find out, plus it was my turn to get the drinks in. I gathered up our empty glasses and made my way into the cool, dark pub. The low ceilings were covered in wooden beams and an enormous stone fireplace stood at the far end of the room, but it was too hot a day to appreciate the cosy atmosphere.

  After choosing a glass of Crooked Spire Summer Gin and tonic, I watched the landlord hand pull Mark’s pint of English porter.

  ‘Such a shame, what happened up at the house.’ The landlord had seen me often enough to recognise me. ‘I hope the police catch who did it quickly, then we can all rest in our beds again.’

  I nodded. ‘Am I right in thinking that some of the stallholders are staying here?’

  ‘You are. All five rooms are booked and all to people working the festival. Two of them to that poor lad’s friends.’

  ‘Ben’s friends? Do you mean Guy and Kyle who worked with him?’

  ‘That’s them. He wasn’t staying here, but they’ve both got rooms.’

  ‘What about the other coffee company, run by two women?’

  He shook his head. ‘We’ve got a cheesemaker and his wife, and two chocolatiers, but no more coffee roasters. It’s marvellous having them stay, mind. We’ve had some great conversations and I might end up doing business with the cheesemakers. There you are, love, enjoy.’

  He handed me the two glasses and I walked back out to Mark with a spring in my step.

  ‘What do you look so cheerful about?’

  ‘The mystery continues.’ I peered over the top of my glasses at him, attempting to look conspiratorial, but I probably just looked drunk. ‘Kathy isn’t staying here so she must have been visiting someone. The question is, who?’

  ‘Well I remember that Ben followed almost immediately after her, but I just assumed he was staying here too.’

  I took a long, cool drink. A honey blossom infused gin had sounded perfect for summer, but to be honest, it was a bit odd.

  ‘Ben being here kind of makes sense. If his colleagues were staying here, then they might have been meeting to discuss business, or just having a relaxing drink in the quiet of one of their rooms after setting up for the festival. That seems reasonable enough, but why would Kathy be here? I didn’t get the impression that the two coffee companies were particularly friendly.’

  ‘What if…’ Mark let the words hang in the air and attempted to wink. ‘What if there was a bit of “how’s ya father” going on?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, she was not sleeping with any of them.’

  ‘Why not? They end up at events together, they get to know each other. The next thing is they’re falling in love over a bag of coffee beans, very romantic.’

  It didn’t make sense to me. There hadn’t been many signs of a professional relationship between the two companies, let alone simmering sexual desire.

  ‘Kathy was always keeping to herself, not fluttering her eyelashes at the Silver Bullet crew.’

  ‘What if that was intentional? What if she’s sleeping with the enemy, so to speak, and is hiding it from her sister?’ He paused for a moment, thinking it all through. ‘She’s hiding the relationship and comes over here for a sneaky fumble. Ben arrives at the pub at the same time to go and meet whichever one she isn’t sleeping with and follows her upstairs. She sees Ben, or he later says something to her, and out of fear of all being revealed to her sister, she bashes him on the back of the head and her dirty little secret dies with him.’

  Mark looked very pleased with himself. I wasn’t sure how to respond so I sat back and drank some gin. Personally I felt the angry gardener was a stronger suspect, but sex had played a part in plenty of murders before, and as much as I didn’t really know Kathy, she was definitely a woman with something on her mind.

  ‘Are you planning on putting your deerstalker hat on?’ Mark disturbed me from my thoughts.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes’s deerstalker hat. I can hear the cogs turning, I think you’re trying to figure out who killed Ben.’

  I couldn’t deny I was more than a bit curious, and there were already two suspects. This was going to need another gin and tonic to oil the cogs.

  Chapter 8

  After upsetting Pumpkin because I wouldn’t lounge around in bed all day with her sprawled on my chest, her nose in my face, I made myself a quick espresso and then jumped in the car. I always enjoyed coming in to work, but today I was especially keen. The cogs had continued to turn as I lay in bed last night, but I had so little information to go on, I didn’t get very far. I needed to know more.

  I’d received a text from Joe in the early hours: the festival had received the all clear and could open again. The stallholders were never going to make up for their lost takings, but hopefully a combination of good weather, passionate foodies and, let’s face it, macabre curiosity would lead to a decent number of visitors and the weekend wouldn’t be a complete failure for them.

  This morning I had decided to shower some love and attention on my Stables Café staff, also known as checking up on them and making sure everything had been kept to a high standard while I’d been distracted with events at the festival. This was the one café that would still have done a reasonable amount of trade while the festival was on, and that hadn’t changed just because the garden had been closed, so the team hadn’t been able to take it easy. The Stables Café was popular with people who wanted to spend time outdoors, and another hot day had been forecast so it was likely they would be busy.

  The café shared a large cobbled courtyard with a gift shop and a number of horse-related exhibitions that reflected the Fitzwilliam-Scott family’s love of the animal. The café team was doing a good job, so after a quick meeting with the supervisor, fending off dozens of questions about the murder from the team while helping them open up and serve the first few customers of the day, I was ready to leave them to it. I knew they would be distracted and eager for gossip, but under the circumstances there was little I could do to prevent that, so long as it didn’t get out of hand.

  ‘Excuse me, are you the manager?’ Queries that started like this were rarely good news. ‘I have a complaint to make.’ As I turned and looked at the owner of the voice, I laughed. It was Joe.

  ‘Oh, give me strength. I hope you’re not expecting a coffee.’ His mouth fell, forming a cartoon-like sad face. ‘Walk with me to the Library Café and by the time we get there I might have changed my mind.’

  We set off out of the courtyard, took a short cut through a sweet little walled garden and down the lane to the staff entrance into the house. I was enjoying the warmth of the sun on my fac
e; as far as the weather went, the Food Festival had been lucky. I’d heard tales of thunderstorms in previous years, of flooded gardens and sausage rolls floating away, never to be seen again. Staff drove past us on golf buggies, and I felt a brief childlike stab of jealousy. I loved the idea of whizzing around the grounds on one of those, but I never had a reason to do so.

  Joe woke me from my mental meanderings. ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, nothing special. I’ve been thinking about the murder.’

  ‘You and me both, and if you’ve any ideas, I’d love to hear them. Everyone is alibied up to the hilt.’

  ‘Did you know Ben? You both grew up around here.’

  ‘No, he’s much younger than me, but thanks for the compliment. Plus he went to a different school to me where the kids tended to be from another area.’

  We turned the corner into the Library Café, our eyes quickly adjusting to its shadows, the natural light being limited to a couple of tiny windows and the few rays that escaped from the kitchen every time someone opened the door. I pointed in the direction of a table tucked away in the corner.

  ‘Go and grab a seat, and I’ll fetch some coffees.’

  ‘Already sorted,’ Tina called out across the room, making her way towards me and smiling. ‘I saw you coming down the lane when I was in the kitchen.’

  I was impressed, although it suggested she also knew how to soften me up.

  ‘Can I grab a moment with you and Joe?’

  ‘Sure, come on.’

  Tina pulled up a chair. ‘It’s nothing major, it’s just that I was in The Old Oak pub last night and there was a young lad in there selling off some of the coffee from that van.’

  ‘From Silver Bullet Coffee?’ Joe sat up straight.

  ‘Yeah, the silver van thing, where the guy was killed.’

  The Old Oak was a pub in a small village about five miles from Charleton House. I’d been told it was nothing special – there was the occasional fight or drugs-related issue, but it was mainly the work of small-time local troublemakers and not particularly newsworthy.