An Unholy Shame

by Joyce Cato

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded. ‘Yes. The bishop wants me to say something at the service tomorrow and then go back to the Manor. He wants me to “be available” until the end of the conference. In case anyone wants to talk things over with someone that they’re unlikely to have to meet again.’

  Monica said nothing but thought that David Carew was wise to offer her husband as an unofficial counsellor. He’d do a good job of it. She leaned forward to kiss his shoulder through the cool silk of his pyjama top. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

  Graham shook his head. ‘The hospital didn’t say. They have to contact her next of kin first. And I have no idea who that would be.’

  Monica sighed then said forlornly, ‘Graham, I feel a bit guilty.’

  Graham’s fingers instantly closed over hers. She didn’t have to explain it any further. She hadn’t liked Celia Gordon and now regretted that she hadn’t been more charitable. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘Me too.’

  The following morning, Sunday, dawned bright and warm, as if deliberately thumbing its nose at mere human tragedy. ‘What time’s the service?’ Monica asked Graham as she put the coffee pot down on the table between them. She hadn’t bothered with breakfast – she didn’t think either of them would be hungry, and Carole Anne wouldn’t stir for hours yet.

  ‘Not till ten,’ her husband replied. ‘I think I’d better go down to the manor first.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said firmly.

  Graham didn’t argue. He’d be glad of her presence.

  As they walked through the double wrought-iron gates of the impressive house, the first thing they saw were two blue-and-white police cars and, just getting out of a dark blue sedan car, a tall, handsome fair-haired man and a woman with dark hair.

  ‘It’s Jason,’ Monica blurted in surprise. ‘What on earth’s he doing here?’ Beside her, Graham stiffened slightly, and she suddenly sought for his hand and held on to it tightly. Together, the two of them moved forward, their feet making small scrunching sounds on the gravel lining the driveway. Hearing it, Chief Inspector Jason Dury turned his head, his ice-blue eyes narrowing on the couple walking towards him.

  His eyes went straight to Monica, dressed in a black skirt and blouse. Her eyes, when they were close enough for him to see, looked troubled and sad.

  ‘Reverend Noble,’ Jason Dury said, greeting Graham first, and beside him his Sergeant, Flora Glenn turned sharply around. Her eyes too went straight to Monica Noble, then back to her superior. She didn’t look best pleased.

  Jason Dury was a local working class boy made good. He’d been in the Thames Valley Police from the start of his career, rapidly gaining promotion to his current position as Chief Inspector. Unmarried, at just turned 40, he looked much younger, and his well-cut blonde hair and classically handsome face made him the obvious target for station-house gossip. And rumour had it that he could have a different girl every night, and probably did. But never a fellow police officer, since he seemed to operate a strict policy about keeping his working life and private life absolutely separate.

  Rumour also had it that DS Glenn was trying to change all that.

  ‘Mrs Noble,’ Jason said politely, holding out his hand first to Graham and then to Monica. ‘We meet again,’ he added, with just a touch of bite to his tone.

  They’d first crossed paths when a murder had been committed at the converted vicarage where the Nobles lived. Then they’d crossed paths yet again at a neighbouring village fete, when another killing had taken place. In both instances, Monica Noble had proved very helpful in bringing the perpetrator to light. He could only hope that this occasion would be different. He didn’t much care for having his cases solved for him by a member of the public.

  ‘Inspector,’ Graham said pleasantly. His gaze, as he met that of the policeman, was perfectly affable.

  I wonder, Jason found himself thinking uneasily, if he knows just how attractive I find his wife. And how I wish that she wasn’t here right now. Already he could feel himself wanting to look at her.

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector actually,’ Flora corrected him jauntily. She didn’t think they’d be staying long, and with Monica Noble around, that was her main worry dealt with. Because, from the sounds of the brief report they’d been given that morning, Flora was almost sure that this was going to prove to be a ‘death by misadventure’ case. They just needed to tie up a few lose ends, and they’d be on their way. It was just her bad luck that the powers-that-be had wanted a senior man on the spot due to the ‘delicate’ nature of the circumstances. More likely, Flora thought cynically, an ecclesiastical bigwig who played golf with the Chief Constable had got on the phone and bent his ear.

  Monica smiled briefly at Jason. ‘Congratulations,’ she said stiffly. Then, looking him straight in the eye, demanded simply, ‘Jason, why are you here?’

  CHAPTER 7

  Something taut in Monica’s tone sent just a faint shiver of warning down Jason Dury’s spine and made him look at her a little more closely. His quick glance of surprise must have alerted her to just how abrupt she’d been for he saw her flush faintly in embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry,’ Monica apologized contritely. ‘I just meant … well … there isn’t anything … wrong, is there?’ Her voice still sounded strained and tense and her eyes were definitely troubled.

  Jason sighed. ‘We hope not. Reverend Gordon’s death was caused by anaphylactic shock, brought on by her allergy to peanuts.’ As the senior officer assigned to the case, he’d been informed of the MO’s preliminary findings as a matter of urgency.

  ‘Oh, how awful,’ Monica said. But it explained Celia’s heart-wrenching symptoms. So it had been an accident, then, not an illness … Slowly, she began to frown. ‘But surely people who have allergies like that are always very careful,’ she began, then gave a mental snap of her fingers. ‘So that’s what she’d been looking for on top of her gateau,’ she added suddenly.

  ‘Gateau?’ Jason said sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  Briefly Monica described how Celia had checked the cream on the top of her dessert. ‘I wondered why she was looking at it so carefully,’ she admitted. ‘But a lot of restaurants sprinkle chopped nuts on the top of gateaux, so she obviously checked first that this time, they hadn’t.’

  Jason nodded. ‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ he said. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us,’ he added in polite dismissal and nodded at Flora. And together the two of them went into the house.

  ‘Quite some place,’ Flora said, looking around the hall, her gaze lingering on the woman seated behind the reception desk who was watching them curiously.

  ‘The kitchens are this way, I expect,’ Jason said, pointing to a set of doors off to one side.

  The big kitchen, which was accessed down a short corridor, was a curious L-shaped room and a mixture of old and new, with cupboards, tables and workspaces in a small, partially hidden room off to the left. At this time of the day it was busy with breakfast preparations, but even so, they were immediately challenged by one of the waiters.

  ‘Sorry, no guests allowed, sir. If you’d …’ he voice trailed off as Jason showed him his ID.

  ‘I’d like to know what courses the Reverend Celia Gordon had at dinner last night. And, if possible, I want samples of the same. Can you arrange that?’ Jason asked succinctly.

  The waiter quickly called out ‘Chef! Chef, I think you’d better speak to these officers.’ He then grabbed a tray of fruit juices from a kitchen worker who was thrusting them towards him and exited through the swing doors. A medium-built man in traditional chef’s hat glanced round part of the dividing wall. He had a spatula in one hand, and his pale brown eyes narrowed on the two strangers ominously. Everyone else looked too busy to pay them any attention.

  ‘Yes? What are you doing in my kitchen?’ he barked.

  ‘And you are, sir?’ Jason prompted, not in the least offended, or intimidated either. He wondered, though, if all the media tales of tyrannical chefs we
re true. Certainly if some television shows were true, some of them could be right tartars.

  ‘I’m Rory Blundell, head chef here.’ He spoke the name as if Jason should recognize it. Jason didn’t, and once again repeated his requests. Somewhat to Jason’s surprise, the chef did not send someone to fetch the manager or owner, nor did he demand explanations. Instead he narrowed his eyes for a moment on the Chief Inspector and then snapped his fingers – presumably at one of the waitresses, who was just that moment passing him by with a tray full of prunes, porridge and kedgeree.

  ‘Tell Marcel I want him, Felicity,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Yes, Mr Blundell,’ she murmured meekly in passing. Her eyes swept across Jason, met Flora’s and skidded away again.

  The chef came forward, wiping his hands on a clean, white towel. ‘I hope you don’t think that there was anything wrong with the food last night,’ he said bluntly. ‘No-one else has complained of any symptoms.’ He had a vaguely continental tinge to his accent, and Jason wondered if he’d trained in France.

  ‘No, there’s no question of food poisoning. Only of peanuts,’ he added, watching the man intently.

  The chef stiffened. ‘Peanuts?’ he echoed, his mouth falling open a little in surprise. ‘There were no peanuts in any of my recipes last night,’ he stated flatly.

  Jason felt Flora stiffen beside him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ the chef snorted. ‘Ah, Marcel. What did the woman who had the heart attack last night order for dinner?’ he looked behind Jason’s shoulder, his face set and tight.

  Jason didn’t bother to correct the ‘heart attack’ theory as they all turned to look at the young man who’d just come in. Under the chef’s hard stare, he swallowed noisily and quickly thought back. But he was a good waiter, with a good memory. ‘The blonde vicar had the asparagus soup, followed by the duck a la orange, and the orange gateau, sir.’

  The chef nodded and without consulting Jason, waved him away. Flora bridled a bit at this bit of alpha-male behaviour, but Jason let it pass. He could always talk to the catering staff later, if it proved necessary. He was still hoping that this was going to turn out to be a case of misadventure. Right now he was anxious to get the samples off to the lab as soon as possible. Until that was done, it was impossible to know where they stood.

  ‘This is Sergeant Flora Glenn,’ Jason introduced Flora, who glared at the chef. ‘I want you to give her samples of all those dishes – the soup, duck, the vegetables that would have been served with it, and the dessert.’

  ‘But … if there were any leftovers, they’re probably in the bins by now,’ the chef went quite pale. ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘There’s still some soup left in the pan, Chef,’ an anonymous voice spoke up from around the dogleg corner. ‘I saw it on the rear right stove this morning.’

  The chef flushed. ‘It should have been disposed of, and the pans washed up long ago,’ he yelled, outraged. ‘Why wasn’t it?’

  The kitchen went momentarily deathly silent. Nobody spoke. Jason, who was very glad indeed that it hadn’t been, smiled gently. ‘I’m sure your staff were … distracted last night, Mr Blundell.’ The cacophony of noise started up again as the crisis passed. ‘And, I’m sorry to say, Reverend Gordon died last night,’ he added quickly.

  The chef slowly reached up to scratch his chin. His brown eyes looked more thoughtful than shocked.

  ‘There’s still some plates of duck and vegetables, Chef,’ some other brave voice chimed up from further back in the kitchen. ‘You said we could have it for lunch, if we preferred. Remember?’

  The chef sighed. Eating the leftovers not served to guests was a main kitchen perk, and the duck had been a popular choice. ‘Marianne, check the fridge, see if there’s any orange gateau left as well. Bring it all out here. You, Phillip, take the sergeant here and get her some samples of the savouries,’ Rory Blundell ordered calmly.

  Jason nodded to his sergeant, who promptly set off, and then looked up in interest as a waitress brought the remains of a delicious looking toffee, cream and orange gateau towards them and put it on the work top nearest to them. It was huge and even with half of it gone it still looked impressive. ‘Is this the only gateau you made?’ he asked.

  ‘Of this type, yes. Would you like a piece?’ the chef asked, with just a touch of humour in his voice. Jason smiled right back at him.

  ‘Not for breakfast, sir, thank you,’ he said mildly. ‘But if you could cut a slice for my sergeant to bag up, I’d be grateful.’

  Rory Blundell obliged, reaching into a drawer and wielding a sharp wedge-shaped knife with skill. He set aside a slice and then, to Jason’s surprise, cut another. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering,’ the chef said, taking a bite out of the cake. ‘There’s no… .’ Suddenly, his pale brown eyes widened. For a moment he looked as if he was going to be sick, but then he chewed and quickly swallowed. He stared at the cake between his fingers, a frown tugging at his dark brows.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jason asked sharply.

  The chef tore his eyes from the cake and back up to the policeman. He was pale. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he mumbled. ‘I could taste peanuts in here. But … there shouldn’t be any.’

  Jason took a slow breath. ‘Is it possible you simply think you tasted peanuts sir? The mind plays some funny tricks sometimes, and now that you know that the Reverend… .’

  The chef didn’t let him finish the psychological analysis. ‘Chief Inspector, my palate is my life,’ he declared somewhat dramatically. ‘I tell you, there’re peanuts in here. But the recipe doesn’t call for any.’

  And as Jason watched, the chef pulled the layers of cake apart. First he tried the orange cream topping, licking delicately, then decisively shook his head. Next the top layer of toffee sponge. He seemed to roll the mouthful against the roof his mouth before swallowing. Again he shook his head. Next he tried the citrus cream layered between the two, and made a small sound. ‘There’s a tiny bit … look. There …’ he pointed to the bottom layer of sponge, and a slightly shining glaze that had been spread on top of it. He ran the tip of his finger across the glaze, sucked on it, and nodded emphatically. ‘That is peanut,’ he said flatly.

  He then made Jason jump as he suddenly yelled at the top of his considerable voice, ‘Maurice! Maurice, come over here!’

  Flora Glenn, sensing trouble and clutching a bag of small plastic sterile containers, each holding either a sample of soup, vegetables or duck and orange sauce, watched the almost-running figure of the Manor’s dessert chef.

  ‘Maurice, did you put a peanut glaze on the orange gateau?’ Rory Blundell demanded.

  Maurice, a very tall, thin man with grey hair and eyes, stared at his boss in some amazement. ‘Peanut doesn’t go with orange, Chef,’ he said blankly.

  ‘I know that,’ the head chef shot back angrily. ‘And that wasn’t what I asked you. Did you make a peanut glaze and put it on the bottom layer of sponge in the orange gateau?’

  ‘No, Chef.’

  The chef turned back to Jason. ‘And neither,’ he said flatly, ‘did I.’

  The pale brown eyes met Jason’s unflinchingly, challenging him to call him a liar.

  ‘See if any one else in here yesterday did so, if you please,’ Jason said firmly.

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ the chef said arrogantly, then nodded at Maurice who hastily began doing the rounds of kitchen staff. It didn’t take him long to come back with his answer.

  ‘No sir. No one touched the gateau,’ he reported, half to the chef, half to Jason.

  ‘I told you,’ Rory snorted. ‘The waiters and waitresses have nothing to do with the food except to serve it, and apart from myself, Maurice and two under-chefs, nobody prepares the food.’

  Jason sighed heavily. This was not looking good. Not good at all. He looked around the kitchen helplessly. How many people had mucked around in here since last night? He could count twelve at this moment. And that didn’t even
take into account the forensic evidence that might have been obliterated whilst breakfast was being made. Hell, what hope could forensics have in here now? But there was no use crying over spilt milk. ‘I want you to take me through the preparations of the gateau yesterday. Exactly what you did, when and where,’ he said to Rory.

  The chef sighed hugely. ‘Can’t this wait? We’re still serving breakfast out there.’ He waved a hand around the kitchen, where the staff had carried on working throughout their talk. Albeit with ears straining.

  ‘No, it can’t wait,’ Jason snapped. ‘When did you make the mix for the sponges?’

  And so the chef gave Jason his recipe for orange citrus gateau and a complex and full cooking lesson in the process. When he had finished, Jason was convinced that no peanut glaze could have been made and added by mistake. The chef was clearly both well organized and meticulous in his work. And, apart from anything else, he was sure that Rory Blundell was the kind of man who was always aware of every little thing that went on in his kitchen, so the chances of a mistake being made seemed minimal. He also seemed to treat the serving staff as a lower form of life, and if one of them had been seen tampering with his creation, all hell would undoubtedly have been let loose.

  Which meant … what? That someone from outside must have done it. But how? And, more importantly, who knew about Celia Gordon’s allergy?

  ‘Did you let the sponges cool before adding the fillings?’ It was Flora who interrupted the thoughtful silence that followed this demonstration.

  Rory shot her a caustic look. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So where did you put them to cool?’ she asked, unfazed.

  ‘On the cooling trays in the work space room.’ He indicated the cupboard-and-top-space room around the other side of the dogleg. Quickly, they all trooped back there.

  And Jason saw at once how easily it might have been done.

  He glanced at Flora, who nodded.

  The big kitchen itself was a hive of activity, with people coming and going through the double doors as waiters and waitresses served breakfast in the dining hall. But here, in the smaller room, somebody could easily have slipped in and worked unseen. The dogleg made it a distinct blind spot from the main kitchen itself, and there were plenty of cupboards to duck into or hide behind if necessary.