by Kate Adams
Talking of coffee, I took a mouthful. It was far too bitter.
‘Silver Bullet Coffee are selling themselves as a Derbyshire-based coffee-roasting company. They appear at a lot of the food festivals in the county and beyond, supply a few shops and have enough of a reputation that people recognise them, know them to talk to and view them as a legitimate business that roasts reasonably good coffee. They certainly started out that way, renting equipment at a roasting facility, probably because they were a start-up business and couldn’t afford their own equipment.
‘Ben, who I’ll come to in detail later, was always trying to get more money, and on a whim stole something from one of the historical houses that was holding an event they were working at. Guy finds out and threatens to blow the whistle on him unless Ben gives him a cut of the profits, and thus a new business is born. Am I right so far?’
Joe nodded.
Our server made a perfectly timed return and placed a plate piled high with miniature pastries in front of us. They were fresh and still warm from the oven. I smiled at him and passed him the empty French press, hoping he’d realise that we needed it refilling. Joe took over the story while Mark inhaled a mini chocolate croissant.
‘Guy is claiming he had no idea and it was all Ben…’
‘You have Guy? Since when?’
‘Since late last night. Sadly he was too far ahead for us to catch him down in London, but we made an educated guess that he’d try and make the most of his contact in Paris. He was identified on a boat from Dover and picked up by the gendarmerie when they docked in Calais. He claimed he had business in Paris. What he didn’t realise was that his “business” was in a Parisian police cell.’
‘So you have Malcolm too?’
‘We can function reasonably well without your help,’ Joe replied.
I removed the apricot Danish pastry that he was holding from his fingers as a response and took an enormous bite before muttering, ‘And?’
Joe playfully shook his head. ‘And he’s singing like a canary.’
That didn’t surprise me; I didn’t really imagine Malcolm having a backbone of steel.
‘Can I finish?’ Joe asked. I nodded and reached for another pastry, a chocolate twist this time.
‘Ben approached Chester to sell on the first few antiques he’d stolen and got lucky. Chester has been involved in dodgy deals for years, but we’ve never been able to pin anything on him. He recognised an opportunity when he saw one and had enough contacts on the antiques black market that he could get rid of the items Ben took, while taking a percentage of the profits of course.’
I took over while Joe reached for another pastry. ‘At this point, when Guy got involved and he and Ben started to make decent money – albeit in a criminal fashion – most coffee roasters would have invested in their own equipment. But not Silver Bullet. They started repackaging coffee roasted by the Northern Bean Company, saving themselves money, but also making life easy for themselves when the company became just a front. They didn’t want to be making too much of an effort; coffee’s not what they really cared about. It might have been in the beginning, but not now. Instead, Guy used one of his first big payments to buy the Airstream. It gave them an air of success and looked great, so they were invited to more and more events and they had more access to buildings with valuable treasures.’
This, of course, had added Bruce Keen into the mix.
‘Did you talk to Bruce?’ I asked Joe.
‘I did, and I don’t think I’ve met someone quite so nervous, despite being completely innocent. He was babbling like a schoolkid who was being wrongly accused of stealing someone’s lunch money. It took me forever to get him to calm down enough for me to understand what he was saying.
‘Like you, he was just passing the estate where Silver Bullet had its premises and dropped in to say hello and check out where they were based. He’d met the guys plenty of times before, but they’d always engineered things so any meetings were held away from their offices, understandably. But they hadn’t planned on him dropping by unannounced. When he saw what they were doing, he was furious. He must have accidentally dropped his card while he was there. He got to Charleton House early on Saturday morning to confront them, and a friend who had one of the stalls got him in. He couldn’t see any activity over at the Airstream so assumed no one was in there, and didn’t get his chance to talk to Guy or Kyle before the body was found. He knew that he had motive and opportunity and has spent the week absolutely terrified.’
No wonder Bruce had been furious and wanted to rearrange our meeting on the Friday – he’d just discovered what the Silver Bullet lads were up to. I felt sorry for him, but not enough to stop me ditching his coffee. I had my standards.
‘But why did they take the Duke’s fruit bowl if it’s of no financial value to anyone?’ asked Mark as he topped up everyone’s mugs from the newly returned French press.
‘As you well know, that fruit bowl, as you call it, was hand-crafted by one of the finest ceramicists of the twentieth century, who was also a very close friend of the Duke’s mother, the late Dowager Duchess. It has no financial value, but the sentimental value is huge.’
Mark pretended to look apologetic, but then I had done my finest impression of a well-spoken headmistress who was disappointed in his ignorance. I continued.
‘Malcolm went to university with the Duke, and although they got on pretty well at the time and were part of the same social circle, Malcolm still ended up with an enormous chip on his shoulder. One that he carries with him to this day. The Duke was extremely wealthy, as were most of his friends, and Malcolm was from a regular working background and couldn’t compete. He knew all about the bowl; in fact, there’s every chance he met the artist. He was spending summers here at Charleton House around the same time that she became part of the Dowager Duchess’s social scene.
‘After running into the Duke at a university reunion a couple of months back, and having his chip deepened, Malcolm came up with a way of getting his own back. Chester had been a fellow student and was also at the reunion. I’m guessing that over a few too many glasses of port, Chester and Malcolm came up with a plan. Chester could put him in touch with Guy, who was by that point running the whole Silver Bullet artefacts stealing operation, and arrange for the bowl to be taken. In return, Malcolm, who isn’t short of a penny or two – self-made, of course – could pay them good money. The reception last Friday night was the perfect opportunity. Malcolm could feed information to Ben, Ben could use that information to steal the bowl without being seen, and then…’
I looked at Joe. I had my suspicions as to what had happened next, but I hoped he and his colleagues, both here and in France, had been able to gather enough information to confirm my idea. I was about to share my theory when the empty chair next to me was scraped back and a cloud of mint green and lavender settled down. Joyce had joined us, resembling one of the beds in the garden. I half expected a swarm of bees to be following close behind.
‘Good morning, how are we all?’ She looked around the table. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘Sophie was just about to tell us who killed Ben,’ chipped in Mark, allowing Joyce to catch up in record speed.
‘Oh my God, poor Ben, you know who did it? I don’t care what he got mixed up in, but the sweet young boy that I remember did not deserve to be killed.’
Our nameless server had returned with a cup for Joyce and poured her some coffee. I watched as Joyce picked up the cup; her nails had been painted in stripes that matched her outfit and were long enough to be used to stir in the lumps of sugar she’d added. I forced myself to focus as it looked as if everyone was waiting for me to carry on.
‘It’s not that complicated, I just got side-tracked by Elliot Forrester. His display of anger, his history with Ben, Isabella’s paternity – it all made perfect sense that he might want to kill Ben in a fit of pique, and so I focused on him as the most likely killer. I’d accepted that as he was a friend of t
he Duke, Malcolm’s alibi was going to be unquestionable, and as a result Guy had a rock-solid alibi too. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ I looked at Joe.
‘As much as I hate to say it, Sophie, you were. Guy did join Malcolm, but not for as long as they claimed. Guy had gone to the Silver Bullet van on the Saturday morning to meet Ben and retrieve the bowl that had been safely hidden in one of the sacks of coffee beans. We worked this out from all the information you gathered, Sophie – thank you, by the way.’ He placed his hand on mine briefly and I saw that Mark had spotted it. That was all I needed.
Joe continued, ‘Ben was keen to save as much money as possible. Every chance to make any extra cash, he took it. When Guy turned up, they got into an argument about money. Ben wanted more – a lot more – and Guy wasn’t having any of it. They got into a fight, and in the process, Guy grabbed the… you know, the coffee thing?’
‘Portafilter.’
‘Portafilter, and hit him with it. He didn’t have to worry about fingerprints as he had good reason for them to be all over the van, so he tried to make it look like a burglary gone wrong, took some of the stock, and then called Malcolm who snuck him into his room. Once there, Guy made him agree to provide an alibi or he’d reveal Malcolm’s plan to steal from the Duke. Guy’s claiming that it was self-defence, that Ben got angry when he refused to increase his cut and Guy was afraid he was going to be killed.’
Joyce shook her head. ‘All because he loved his daughter.’
‘Who, the gardener? But he didn’t do it.’ Now Mark was looking confused, so I topped up his coffee. He clearly needed it. On the other hand, and despite having been at the table for only two minutes, Joyce had caught up and enlightened him.
‘Mark, if you spent as much time listening to people as you spend sculpting your moustache, you’d know that I meant Ben. He made a huge mistake when he slept with Carla years ago and took a back seat in raising Isabella. But she was his daughter and his love for her, combined with a need to make up for his mistakes, led to him throwing money at her. That in due course led to him making some rather silly mistakes, which led to his death.’
‘So what happens now?’ I asked.
‘We finish off the interviews, and the Art and Antiques Unit will come in to help us try and track all the objects that have been stolen over the last twelve months. There’s also a chance that they’ll be able to find evidence of more of Chester’s black market dealings while they’re at it.’
‘It’s Elliot I feel sorry for.’ We all turned to face Mark, who seemed to be having a rare introspective moment. He looked up at the three of us. ‘What? The poor guy’s private life is already a non-secret round here. This will have blown it further out into the open. Everyone knows he was a suspect; he’s been one of the water-cooler topics for days. I’m sure he just wants to put what Carla did behind him and get on with his life.’
‘He won’t need to worry about it for long,’ said Joyce. ‘I heard that he resigned first thing this morning. Came in at six o’clock, gave his month’s notice and asked to be given duties that took him as far away from the house and the rest of the staff as possible.’
‘What will he do?’ Joe asked. Joyce shrugged.
‘There’s plenty of grand gardens that need staff in Derbyshire. Some are open to the public, some not, but either way he’ll have no problem getting work. I was always surprised that he hadn’t left before, but the gossip had died down and he just got on with his job. He never socialised with his colleagues, not after Carla… well, you know.’
‘You could always transfer from retail to gardens and replace him,’ Mark suggested.
‘What?’ Joyce responded, her voice dripping with incredulity.
‘Well, you look the part. You could be a roving lavender display, attracting bees and wildlife to different parts of the garden.’
I put my head in my hands. Joyce’s nails, or talons, could easily be used as weapons and Mark was sitting dangerously close to her. I worried for his safety.
‘Young man, I like Sophie a great deal. For unknown reasons, she has become extremely fond of you, so for her sake alone I will suffer from a brief moment of partial deafness and assume that what I just heard was no more than a rather embarrassing bout of flatulence.’ As I raised my head, she slowly brought her cup to her lips and stared at Mark as she took a long sip of coffee. Her eyes never left him, even as she placed her cup perfectly in the centre of the saucer. If I hadn’t known Joyce any better, I would have been terrified.
‘Well, I owe you all a great deal of thanks.’ Joe raised his cup in the air. He spoke quickly and glanced in my direction, but I knew he was trying to save Mark from himself. In a battle of wits between him and Joyce, there was no guarantee that Mark would win. ‘Sophie in particular. I’ve always known you had an unhealthy coffee addiction, but I would never have thought that it would help solve a case. You are a wonderful addition to the Charleton House clan.’
‘Hear, hear,’ chimed Joyce and Mark, their momentary clash forgotten.
‘You know, she could be worse.’ Mark had taken on a considered tone, which meant that he had entered tour guide mode and was about to enlighten us. ‘Rumour has it that Beethoven counted out his coffee beans each morning to ensure that each cup of coffee was to his taste. He required precisely sixty beans.’ He raised his eyebrows at us, then buried his face back in his cup. We were silent. It was a ‘mic-drop’ moment.
Joe broke the silence. ‘She looks like a sixty-five bean girl to me.’ He locked eyes with me over his coffee cup and I prayed that I wouldn’t see any twinkling. I desperately tried to think of something to say, but ironically, I didn’t seem to have had enough coffee to think that quickly.
‘Well, if you’ve finished solving murders and identifying coffee scandals, I have places to be, tours to give, stories to tell.’ Mark got up from the table. I could have hugged him for his timing. ‘Sophie, I’ll see you later for a celebratory gin in the Black Swan. Joe, I expect you to be there. Joyce,’ – he paused briefly – ‘you are a visual delight and I adore you. There will be a glass of prosecco with your name on it should you wish to grace us with your presence.’ He kissed her on the cheek and walked away quickly enough that she couldn’t have reached for him if she’d tried.
Joe and I sat in nervous silence.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Joyce exclaimed, taking in our anxious faces. ‘He’s a fool, but my life would be much less colourful without him in it.’
‘I doubt it,’ risked Joe, looking her dress up and down. All three of us laughed as Joyce put her cup down and picked up her handbag. It was large enough to constitute a sack and had an enormous image of a peacock feather printed on the side.
‘Sophie, dear, I believe we are expected somewhere.’
She was right. I had come to an agreement with Signal Box Coffee that Lucy and Kathy would supply some of the coffee we used at the house. Sadly, they were unable to produce the quantities I needed to supply all our cafés, so we’d decided that theirs would be the special blend that was served in the Garden Café and at events. Joyce and I were off to meet with them and discuss selling bags of the same blend, and maybe a few others roasted especially for Charleton House, in the gift shops.
I’d been at Charleton House for just over twelve months and I was going to finally start putting my mark on the cafés. I had all sorts of plans to give them real personality and a solid connection with the house, its history and the stories that inhabited its walls. So long as there were no more murders for me to become distracted by, I could make a lot happen here.
Joyce looked over her shoulder. ‘Come on, Sophie, chop-chop.’
‘No more murders,’ I said under my breath. Now there was a phrase I never thought I’d hear myself use.
Read the first Charleton House Mystery
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About the Author
After 25 years working in some of England’s finest buildings, Kate P. Adams has turned to murder.
Kate grew up in Derbyshire, the setting for the Charleton House Mysteries, and went on to work in theatres around the country, the Natural History Museum - London, the University of Oxford and Hampton Court Palace. Every day she explored darkened corridors and rooms full of history behind doors the public never get to enter. Kate spent years in these beautiful buildings listening to fantastic tales, wondering where the bodies were hidden, and hoping that she’d run into a ghost or two.
Kate has an unhealthy obsession with finding the perfect cup of coffee, enjoys a gin and tonic, and is managed by Pumpkin, a domineering tabby cat who is a little on the large side. Now that she lives in the USA, writing the Charleton House Mysteries allows Kate to go home to her beloved Derbyshire every day, in her head at least.
Acknowledgements
Just as it takes a dedicated team to run a historic house, it takes a team to bring a book out into the world. I am lucky enough to have a fabulous, generous and extremely knowledgeable team of my own.
Thank you to my wonderful beta readers Chris Bailey-Jones, Elin Begley, Joanna Hancox, Lynne McCormack, Eileen Minchin, Rosanna Summers. Your honesty and insightful comments keep me on the straight and narrow.