The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “Yes. I remembered something I have to do. I’ll come back to read this later.” I put the slim volume on a side table next to my chair. “Are you going to stay here? Maybe I’ll see you when I get back?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be here for a while. Fergus has some histories that I don’t even have access to in the university library.” She waved a thick tome at me. The gesture reminded me of the woman on the moor holding out a book, and I shuddered. Luckily, Lucy didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, and like I said, let’s not mention our tour of the east wing to Duncan,” she urged. “He’s got enough on his mind right now without worrying about me breaking an ankle.”

  7

  When I reached the top of the grand staircase, I was glad to see Mrs. Dunsmore down in the entry hall. It seemed likely that she would be aware, if not of everything, but of much that happened in the castle and on the estate. She was talking to Lachlan, who gave me a faint nod of acknowledgement before turning to hurry out through the front door. At some point soon, I’d have to try engaging him in conversation, a joyless undertaking. He didn’t seem like the chatty type.

  Mrs. Dunsmore appeared to be upset. Her cheeks were pink and she was out of breath.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, my chest tightening with anxiety as I descended the last few stairs.

  “Nick has gone,” she said. “I was just on my way to tell the chief.”

  “Gone?” My mind flashed quickly to the feud Fergus had sensed was brewing in the kitchen.

  “Pierre thinks he quit. He didn’t come in this morning. Can you imagine? With guests for dinner and the party tomorrow night? I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  I patted her hand. “We’ll all pitch in,” I said. “I’m sure we can make it work. But perhaps you could tell Fergus later? The meeting is still going, and it may not be a good time to distract him.”

  She smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “That’s a thought. We want things to go as smoothly as possible, though I canna say I like that young American much. I took trays up to the Great Hall earlier, so they could eat while they talked. He didn’t bother to say thank you. But maybe that’s what they’re all like in America, what do I know? How about you, dear? It’s well past lunchtime and you haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t you come down with me to the kitchen and you can tell Pierre what you’d like?”

  That sounded promising, so I accompanied Mrs. Dunsmore down the back stairs to the kitchens. The young chef was there alone, stirring a pan of something that smelled delicious.

  “Can ye make something for Kate here to eat?” Mrs. Dunsmore asked.

  Pierre bowed to me and smiled. “Of course. What would you like? I have potato and leek soup, or perhaps you’d prefer a salad?”

  “Soup sounds perfect,” I said.

  “Pierre will bring it up for ye,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “Make yourself comfortable in the breakfast room.”

  “Oh, no, that’s far too much trouble. I’d be happy to eat down here if Pierre doesn’t mind? Will you eat too?” I was hoping she’d say yes, so that I could talk with her, but she shook her head vigorously. “No, I have that much to do. Beds to make up for the new guests. I must get on.”

  “Why don’t I help you? I can eat later.”

  Mrs. Dunsmore actually rocked back on her heels, as if I’d suggested something improper. “Goodness, no. What would the master think? I have a girl who’s helping me, and we’ll get it all done soon enough.” She looked at Pierre. “Will ye manage without young Nick to help you? There will be eight for dinner tonight.”

  “Pas de probleme, Mrs. D.,” he replied.

  The housekeeper hurried out. For now then, I’d settle for a chat with Pierre. He pulled a stool up to the butcher block counter and, with a flourish, gestured to me to sit. With quick, practiced movements, he produced silver cutlery, a starched white napkin, and a plate of crusty bread with a tiny bowl of chilled butter. Then he served my soup as though we were in a Michelin star restaurant.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I don’t want to distract you. You’ll be busy now, with the party tomorrow and the extra houseguests. It’s too bad about Nick not coming into work.”

  Pierre’s brown eyes darkened. “Yes. The timing is most unfortunate. He was supposed to be here at eight this morning but he failed to come in. I called his number several times with no success.”

  “What happened? Did you quarrel?”

  “Quarrel? Mais non. But he hasn’t been happy since I arrived four months ago. He resents me and I do not blame him for that. But what can I say? He wasn’t capable of producing haute cuisine of the quality needed for the estate’s dinners. It is a serious money-making venture.”

  My soup was ample proof that Pierre was more than qualified as a chef. It was delicious, smooth and creamy.

  While I ate, he lined up three glistening knives next to a chopping board. “I will be just a minute,” he said, heading towards a massive steel door on the far side of the kitchen. He flipped up the door lever and stepped into what was obviously a meat locker. When he came out, he was carrying a large plucked bird. It resembled a chicken, but not quite.

  “Pheasant,” he said as he set it on the chopping board. With the largest of the knives, he expertly sliced wings, legs and breasts into neat pieces. The blade slid through the flesh easily, and I swallowed hard, remembering the knife attack I’d seen that morning. My stomach flipped, and I put my spoon down.

  “The soup is not good?” he asked, his dark brows drawn together in a frown.

  “It’s wonderful,” I assured him, picking up my spoon again. “So, do you think that Nick will come back? Has he walked out before?”

  “He’s left a few times and returned, often a little drunk,” Pierre replied, selecting a smaller knife to chop up an onion. “Perhaps he will realize that leaving is not a sensible solution.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “We all want Fergus’s birthday party to be a success.”

  I settled back to admire Pierre’s knife skills while I ate my soup. Josh and I enjoyed cooking and often spent our evenings experimenting with new recipes. We were reasonably accomplished home cooks, but my diced onions never looked as perfect as Pierre’s did. He went on to make quick work of several bunches of fresh sage and oregano. The aroma of the herbs drifted across the counter towards me.

  “Where did you learn to be a chef?” I asked him.

  “I went to culinary school in Lyon and then I worked in several exclusive restaurants in Paris,” he replied.

  “How did you come to be here in Scotland then? Did Fergus advertise?”

  Pierre’s cheeks flushed red as he scraped the finely chopped sage leaves into a copper bowl. “Not exactly. It was a matter of chance. I was looking for a new challenge and Fergus needed a chef.”

  I looked at him with one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to elucidate, which, after a pause, he did. “I came for a little holiday,” he said. “At the inn in the village, I met a young man who told me he was also a chef and that he worked here, preparing dinners for a few guests and for private events. I visited the castle and ate here one evening.” He pulled a face as though smelling something unpleasant. “I realized there was an opportunity, and made a proposal to develop the menu in both range and quality to attract more diners. And that is how I came to be here.”

  “I bet poor Nick regrets talking to you at the inn,” I said.

  “Perhaps so. Nick is a competent cook, but…” He shrugged. “We have attracted many more patrons since I came.”

  Pierre was very French, handsome, and undoubtedly talented, but modesty clearly wasn’t one of his greatest assets.

  “And you don’t miss the glamor of haute cuisine in Paris?” I asked.

  He either didn’t hear me, or pretended not to, because he turned away to fill a large pot with water and banged it down on the stove. I assumed our little chat was over and wondered about his real reason for leaving Paris. The castle was picturesque, and I guessed that Fergus
was a good boss, but it was a far cry from working in a culinary epicenter of Europe. Maybe he’d been fired. That would explain his reaction to my question. Or maybe he just needed a job. Although my faith in human nature had taken a beating over the last couple of years, I still tried to see the best in people.

  As Pierre continued to make a racket with his pots and pans, I finished my soup. “Thank you,” I said loudly enough for him to hear me. “The food was scrumptious.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle.”

  He centered the pot over the flame and turned back to look at me, flashing a wide smile. As he seemed to be back to his charming self, I ventured another question.

  “Is Nick angry with Fergus for bringing you in over his head? Has he said anything that could be construed as a threat?”

  Pierre shot me a puzzled look. “Threat? Not that I recall.” He reached for a sack of potatoes and began to peel them. “Although, now I think about it, he did once complain that he felt Fergus had let him down. But then, many people are feeling that way at this time, because of the situation with the estate.”

  “You know about it then?” I asked. “About the potential sale?”

  “Of course. Mr. MacKenna has been very open with all of the staff and he has explained the reasons for needing to sell. One or two of the tenants are unhappy. I saw them in the pub with Nick one evening, whispering in a corner.”

  “How about you? Are you unhappy too?”

  Pierre slid the potatoes into a pan of water. “No. Why should I be? Fergus assures me that the new owner will keep me on. And if he does not, well, then it will be time for me to go elsewhere. I am content to take whatever path opens up to me.”

  “What about the other staff?” I asked. “Lachlan and Mrs. Dunsmore?”

  “How can they be happy?” he said. “This place has been home to them for many, many years. But things change, and you have to look out for yourself.” He returned to the chopping board and picked up another knife. “No one else will look out for you.”

  “That’s sad but…” I began and stopped when I heard footsteps on the stone staircase. I wondered if it was Nick returning. A tall man in a black wool coat appeared in the arched entrance to the kitchen.

  “Bonjour Pierre,” he said.

  The chef swung around, knife still in hand, a frown creasing his brow. He and the visitor talked in rapid French, both of them appearing agitated. When Pierre flung his hands up in the air in a gesture of frustration, the blade glinted under the halogen lights in the ceiling. I wished he’d put it down.

  The men calmed down and carried on talking, more quietly now so I couldn’t hear anything they said. Not that I’d understand it anyway. I spoke Italian fluently but my French was minimal, a rusty leftover from a couple of years in school.

  The visitor’s sharp chin and high cheekbones made him appear intense, even a little menacing. His skin was pale against his black coat. I wondered if he and Pierre were related. If they were, it didn’t seem that they had the warmest of relationships. After a few minutes of earnest conversation, the stranger turned and left. I heard his hard-soled shoes tapping on the stone steps.

  Pierre muttered something under his breath and came back to resume his chopping. Carrots were now the object of his impeccable knife skills.

  “Who was that?” I asked, when it seemed likely he wasn’t going to explain.

  “Just a friend. He will help me at the party tomorrow night.”

  “I hope he’s nicer to the guests than he was to you,” I joked. “He seemed a little fierce.”

  Pierre shot me a glance, and I thought my attempt at humor was lost on him, but then he smiled. “Yes, I will make sure he is both pleasant and polite.”

  “Is he local?” It seemed unlikely that there’d be two Frenchmen living in a tiny community in rural Scotland.

  “No. He is staying at the hotel in Dalmally for a few nights. We knew each other in France, and he stopped by on his way up to the Hebrides for a holiday. He offered to assist me with cooking for the party tomorrow. And he speaks very good English, so he can assist with the serving if needed.”

  When Pierre turned away to adjust one of the burners on the range, I hopped down from my stool. I’d enjoyed my late lunch, and had learned a little from Pierre about the unhappy tenants. For himself, though, he seemed resigned to moving on elsewhere if the sale went through. He didn’t appear to be harboring any ill will against Fergus.

  “Thanks again for the soup. I hope Nick turns up soon so he can help with the party too.”

  “Perhaps. He can only be helpful if he is sober.”

  8

  I left the kitchen and climbed the narrow staircase, noticing the plain and functional banisters and spindles. Its stone stair treads were scarred and worn from centuries of use as servants hurried up and down, catering to the needs of the people upstairs. Although bustling and noisy once, today it was quiet and a little gloomy.

  When I reached the entry hall, I stopped, gazing up at the mounted stag heads on the walls. They reminded me of the doe I’d seen earlier. Had she been real or was she too part of my strange vision? I thought about the young woman. Her style of dress suggested she’d been well-to-do, possibly a member of the family who lived in the castle. In spite of Josh’s recommendation to stay focused on Fergus, my mind kept wandering back to her, wondering who she might be. Why was she out by herself, and what was the book she’d been carrying? The man in the black robe had been intent on taking it from her. Was that why he’d killed her? Still staring at the stag heads, I became lost in my vision, seeing it again like a slow-motion video.

  Time to concentrate, I told myself. I needed to uncover more information on the house and its occupants, as well as the tenants. Pierre had indicated that some were angry with Fergus, and that Nick had been seen in conversation with them. He’d implied that Nick was also upset, resentful of the decision to sell, which wasn’t too surprising. From what Pierre had said, it didn’t seem likely that the young man would keep his job at the castle once Fergus left. I needed to talk to Nick, to find out how he was feeling. With any luck, he’d identify which of the tenants were so unhappy. When Josh was free later, we could go into the village to find him.

  For now, though, I had no one to talk to, so I decided to go back to the library to read the history book I’d set aside. It had looked like a fast read, good for a basic background on the estate. I retraced my steps up the grand stairway, past the double doors to the Great Hall, which were closed. Beyond them, voices murmured like the low hum of bees, and I hoped the sale negotiations were going well. Sad as it was that Fergus had to relinquish the castle, it had to be the best possible outcome for him, and Duncan would certainly ensure Stanton Knox paid a fair price for the estate.

  I turned into the green-carpeted corridor that led to the library, thinking Lucy might still be there. The huge room was empty, however, and my footsteps echoed on the old oak floors as I walked to my armchair. But when I reached the side table where I’d left my Short History of Castle Aiten, it was empty. Had Lucy picked up my book? Thinking perhaps Mrs. Dunsmore had been in to clean and had put it away, I went over to check the shelf. There was no sign, though, only a thin gap proclaiming its absence.

  Certain there must be other histories I could read instead, I scanned the shelves. For a few minutes, I was happily distracted, pacing slowly along the walls of books, running my fingers along cracked bindings and peeling gold letters. Red, blue, green and brown, the books offered vast accumulations of knowledge and whispered messages from the past. But I didn’t know which one might give me a lead to follow. Finally, I gave up. I’d go talk to Mrs. Dunsmore, ask her if she’d seen my book, and try to engage her in conversation about the estate sale. I needed further clues on the danger to Fergus.

  Before I left the library, I found a pen and notepad next to the phone. A few minutes later, I’d completed a sketch of the woman I’d seen on the moor. It wasn’t perfect, but it captured her slender figure, her pretty
features and luxuriant curls. I’d show it to Fergus later to see if he’d recognize her from a portrait or a book.

  Remembering that Mrs. Dunsmore had said she was going to make up beds for the guests who were staying overnight for the party, I set off for the tower. Traversing the picture gallery, I was conscious of dozens of eyes watching me from the gilt frames. Did these old ancestors see me as an outsider, poking my nose in where it didn’t belong? If they could talk, would they tell me how to save Fergus?

  The spiral tower stairway took me down to the ground floor where I walked along the hall past several open bedroom doors. I glanced in each one until I found Mrs. Dunsmore smoothing out a dusky rose coverlet on a bed.

  “Can I help you?” I asked her.

  “Thank you, but everything is in hand,” she replied. “Only two more rooms to do. Then I’ll tidy the dining room ready for the dinner this evening. I hope Pierre’s managing on his own.”

  “He seemed to be doing fine. Of course, he should be, with all that Paris training and experience. He’s an interesting character, isn’t he?” I paused, giving her a moment, hoping she might offer some observation on the young chef, but she nodded distractedly while centering a small vase of heather on the dressing table.

  “Oh, I wondered if you’d cleaned up in the library?” I asked. “I left a book on a table, but it’s gone missing.”

  “No, dear. I haven’t been in the library today.” She glanced over at me. “It probably fell on the floor or slid down the back of the sofa. I often find books tucked away behind the cushions or throws.” She hurried over to smooth the folds of the curtains into place.

  It obviously wasn’t a good time for a chat. “I’ll get out of your way,” I said and wandered back into the corridor, where I paused, uncertain what to do next. Maybe I’d ask Lucy if she’d taken my book. Thinking that she might have returned to her room, I trudged up the spiral staircase to the second floor where I heard the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner. The door to my room hung open and, inside, a young woman pushed the vacuum to and fro across the rug. She gave me a wave when she saw me. “Just a few minutes,” she shouted over the noise.