The Food Detective

by Judith Cutler

  Sue’s lips tightened. ‘But she doesn’t bring the others to Sunday school. And she refuses to be confirmed.’

  ‘In her situation I’d have my doubts about a benevolent divinity.’ I’d rather put my trust in a benevolent if bullying employer. Yes, the one who let her study in the kitchen if it was a quiet night and made sure she always had plenty of odds and ends to eke out her food budget. But I’d sworn her to secrecy about that – threatened to cut off supplies if so much as a whisper got out.

  ‘All the same.’

  I’m afraid I have a very short fuse. Even that silly bit of intransigence lit it. And as usual, my mouth got into gear before my brain did. ‘I hear you’ve added undertaking to your other clerical duties.’

  She flushed, and – to her credit – tried to laugh. Mistake. It meant I knew she had something to hide.

  ‘Though I don’t suppose cats qualify for consecrated ground. Clever of you to carry a spade in the car just in case.’

  But this time I’d gone too far, and she greeted with apparent delight and no doubt real relief the church organist, the only man I know who can make ‘Away in a Manger’ sound like a military march. I left them to it.

  So she must have taken Nick back to the parsonage to bury the cat. Weirder and weirder. But I’d never asked about her antipathy to the Grevilles. My job for another day.

  Whatever the weather, I went for an afternoon walk. Bother the idea that every pub in the land should be open all day and half the night too. The White Hart was firmly shut between two-thirty and seven, and, unless there was a party, seemed to close down naturally between ten and ten-thirty. It’d be different when the restaurant opened. Even then, I’d always gone on the principle that if people found it hard to get into a restaurant, the more cachet it got. I was even toying with the idea of set sittings, but given you virtually need an Ordnance Survey map to find the place, I supposed a bit of flexibility was more sensible.

  Today I struck out up the footpath alongside the stream that in summer makes the village so attractive to tourists. Shoals of them, dropping bits of ice cream cone as they looked for trout, would hang over the deep V-shaped recesses presumably built in the parapet to allow yokels to cower out of the way when the lord of the manor and his cronies came whizzing along in their curricles and chaises. Or, if you want to be less controversial, when the haywain trundled past. Actually I suspect it was something to do with controlling water flow, something about which I knew zilch.

  There had been talk of pulling down the old bridge and replacing it with one wide enough for Euro-monster lorries, but in a rare burst of energy, Sue Clayton’s vicar, Rupert Ellis, had managed to get it listed as a grade two historical building, with a star banged on it for good measure. And somehow the idea for an extra bridge had quietly died.

  The footpath was steep, strewn with large stones. When it was dry, it was like climbing a flight of overlarge steps. In this weather, there seemed to be almost as much water coursing down it as in the stream-bed itself. Even with gaitered boots and waterproof trousers, I didn’t feel very dry. Poor Tony: what would he have thought to see his relict – I got that word from some of the memorial tablets in the village church – dressed up like an apology for a deep-sea fisherman? He wouldn’t have been able to conceive of the pleasure I got from my walks. Nor of the reason I started in the first place. I’d read somewhere that simply walking half an hour every day reduced your weight by half a stone a year, even if you didn’t do anything else. Walking half an hour seemed a mammoth task when I started – and I’m not referring to my weight, though I shudder to think that once I filled the clothes I’d kept as a dire reminder. Oh, I got rid of most of them – you could probably have housed a couple of asylum seeker families in one of my tops. Except you mustn’t joke about such things down here. They assured me solemnly when they saw my choice of reading that everything, from BSE to the Iraq War, was the fault of ‘they danged bogus asylum seekers’. Since I’d never seen a non-white face down here, I wondered whence they’d drawn their conclusions. Anyway, all but a couple of my circus tent dresses had gone, and I only kept those because I liked the material and planned to turn them into proper garments when I’d finished losing weight.

  Meanwhile, I actually liked walking, now it didn’t chafe my thighs and now my lungs had got used to the idea of expanding. So I was furious to find a coil of barbed wire across a public right of way. OK, since no one else ever seemed to use it, my private right of way. Nice, new, shiny barbed wire. Why the hell had anyone done that? It was against every right to roam law in the country.

  Meanwhile, should I take the path to the left, which meant crossing a bridge I wouldn’t have fancied even when the water was low, or to the right, which would take me towards the campsite of which Nick was the solitary inhabitant? Consulting my map – oh, yes, I did the thing properly, a large scale OS map folded into a protective cover, even a pair of field glasses to help me spot birds or landmarks – I grasped my walking stick firmly and set off towards the camp. And then I turned back. I was waterproof, pretty well thornproof. No one was going to stop me going down that path.

  But it wasn’t just barbed wire. I realised as soon as I tried disentangling it that there was razor wire in there too. My gloves weren’t up to tackling that. But if I could lay my hands on some leather gauntlets and some wire cutters, I’d be back.

  The snug filled up slowly with the regulars, but there were a couple of gaps where two of the bell ringers usually sat. There was no doubt they’d started their practice, nor much as to where the expression ‘dropping a clanger’ came from. Nick, no doubt.

  ‘Well, we all have to start sometime,’ I told Lindi, covering her ears ostentatiously. ‘Remember those early pints you pulled? Now, make sure you’re ready for the rush after practice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought three was a rush. After all, Lucy can’t drink.’

  However did people cope with teenage daughters? ‘I believe they’ve got a new person on the team. And Mr Tregothnan always comes in just as they do. Now, I’m telling you, Lindi – you keep him at arm’s length. Flirting’s one thing, touching up’s quite another. And if he thinks he can get away with it with you, what about poor Lucy?’ Wrong. There was no love lost between them, as Lindi’s exaggerated shrug and pout reminded me. Damnation. And she’d have picked up my description of Nick Thomas as ‘a new person on the team’. Why hadn’t I simply named him? Nothing like a bit of reticence to stir up gossip, was there?

  First in was Ron Snow, rubbing his hands with what looked like a mixture of cold and glee. ‘Be able to do Bob Minimus soon,’ he crowed, before he even savoured his pint of cider. ‘That new lad don’t look much, but he’ll manage, you mark my words,’ he added, looking round as if someone was prepared to challenge him. He got in half of bitter for his crony, Wally Hall.

  Aidan Carr, managing to look dapper despite his layers of thick sweater, sashayed in for his G and T. He always camped it up in public, knowing, I suspect, how many fingernails he got under by doing so. He lived with his long-term partner Carl, a younger man who insisted on stripping to the waist to chop wood. Women who hadn’t twigged the nature of their relationship lusted after him; those who had complained such a hunk was wasted.

  ‘Such a vile drink,’ he murmured as I poured for him. ‘I’d adore a decent pint, Josie darling, but think of my image. Now, when are you going to grace our humble board with your fair presence?’

  I bobbed a curtsey. ‘Whenever you ask me, Sir, she said.’ An evening à trois with them was an invitation to be cherished. While – with a huge flourish designed to set every old codger’s teeth on edge – he unzipped his handbag, I glanced round. No sign of Nick, or of young Lucy.

  No. Surely not. I’d got him down as a decent man, for all he was an ex-cop. If he started messing round with the young, Tony’s threats to my young lover would pale into insignificance beside my actions.

  ‘Sue said she’d got an extra recruit for you – Mr Thomas, who’
s staying on Bulcombe’s campsite. Didn’t he turn up?’

  ‘Indeed he did. And provided a moment of drama.’ Aidan leaned forward confidentially.

  ‘He never broke a bell!’

  He shook his head, his face serious. ‘I was afraid he was having some sort of attack. One minute he was chatting away, if not easily then with due social enthusiasm, the next he was ashen white and literally speechless. I was quite concerned. And what poor Lucy must have thought, goodness knows.’

  ‘Lucy?’ I asked sharply.

  Aidan raised an eyebrow. ‘That poor child has borne more than her share of burdens, Josie, but having a strange man look at you as if he’d seen a ghost can’t have been pleasant. However, he pulled himself together and joined in –’

  ‘We heard!’

  ‘– and has promised to come next week, work permitting. Have you any idea what his line of business might be?’

  ‘Some sort of civil servant, he said.’

  ‘Totally respectable, then. Which is fortunate, since he insisted on walking Lucy home. He said he wouldn’t let his own daughter walk around after dark on her own.’

  ‘You think that was a good idea?’

  ‘Lucy seemed to think so. She was asking for some information for one of her school projects. But you can ask him yourself – here he is!’

  Ron Snow was on his feet faster than I’d ever seen him move. ‘Well, young Nick, it’s time for your scrumpy. Tradition, isn’t it, missus, that we wet a new ringer’s head. Come on, pull him a pint. And then it’s down in one, isn’t it, boys?’

  I did as I was told. After all, it was his fuss to make, not mine. Then I had an idea. ‘We’ve got this all wrong. It should be a yard of ale.’

  He might get drunk, but at least ale might be kinder to that ulcer of his. Imagine, tipping a pint of pure acid on to an open sore. His throat worked as he swallowed saliva. Or it might have been one of those clever tablets of his. With a wonderful impression of nonchalance, he reached for the vile liquid and downed it in one.

  He acknowledged the cheers and stamps of the little group of regulars, and looked as if to join them. But they returned to their allotted chairs, any gap seamlessly closed. Was it their rudeness or his ulcer that turned him ashen white? He waved a perfunctory hand in farewell, and, whatever his hopes or intentions might have been, turned and left the bar.

  Chapter Five

  They’d gone! My brand new Portaloos had gone! When the hell had that happened? And why? I was on the phone before you could say urinal, before I was even dressed, staring down at the spot where they’d been while I was still mother naked.

  ‘Collected! Why should they have been collected?’

  ‘You phoned yesterday morning, or your barman did.’

  It was hard to stay furious when the old guy had such a gentle Mummerset burr. But I did my best. ‘I shall have to speak to my barman,’ I lied tartly. ‘In the meantime, I want them replaced, and – are you listening? – I want you to write in big letters on my file that they will not be removed again except on my personal request. In writing. With my signature, which you will check against the signature on my contract. Yes, of course service them regularly. But don’t take them away. Or I’ll ram you head first down one before it’s emptied. Understand?’

  He understood.

  I was due for a talk with Dominic Webster, my architect, so I had to forego my early walk. Calories apart, it wasn’t much loss. The hills and the sky were both the same leaden grey, and the roads awash. Definitely a day for headlights. I picked my way slowly into Taunton, slashing through puddles halfway across the road. At last I parked on the far side of the cricket ground, which was convenient for the architect’s office if not for shopping.

  Only to have Dominic’s receptionist telling me, in that singsong delivery so beloved of estate agents and flight attendants, that his car had broken down, but that she was sure that Dom would be with me as soon as possible.

  ‘How soon is soon?’

  We established that his diary was clear for the rest of the morning, flooded foundations preventing him from making the scheduled site visit to somewhere near Exeter that had necessitated my early appointment. So I might slip to the shops for an hour. Actually I wanted to go to the library and have a root round. After all, if Mrs Greville owned the area, that barbed wire would be on her land, and it would no doubt give Sue enormous satisfaction if I could make the old bat remove it. OK, not with her own bare hands. But it would be a peace offering.

  Head down, umbrella up, I ran slap into Nick Thomas, in a brand new Barbour. Was this the sincerest form of flattery? More likely the only practical choice. ‘Not working, Copper?’

  ‘I’ve run out of milk.’

  ‘Don’t you have a minion?’

  ‘I work on my own. I told you.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was as alone as that. Come on, I know a place where we can get a decent cup of coffee. I want to pick your brain. And you can get your milk on the way back. And some water biscuits – they’re supposed to be good for bad stomachs.’

  ‘So what did you want to know?’ he asked warily, as we sat at right angles to each other in the bay window of a café that wanted to be chic but ended up chi-chi. Our waterproofs, dripping on to the floor beneath the curly hat stand, didn’t help the ambience.

  ‘Land law. Can a landlord just block a public right of way if he feels like it?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that he can’t.’ Was I meant to take that as a compliment? ‘But it’s not land law. It’s an offence under the Highways Act of 1980. Section 137 as I recall. The same legislation we used to make demonstrators move on, as it happens. You report the obstruction to the county council, who’ll have some sort of team devoted to such offences. Their officers will serve notice requiring the obstruction’s removal with a specified, suitable time. Failure to comply will result in prosecution at a magistrates’ court, the maximum fine being £1000.’

  I sat back, mouth agape. ‘Well, I’m blessed. You know, you almost grew back your white shirt and epaulettes before my very eyes. Sir!’ I gave a mock-salute. ‘So all I’ve got to do is go to the council and they shift it. Pouff!’

  ‘In time.’ He returned to his washed out self. ‘It rather depends on what else they’ve got on their plate. And in this weather they may have other fish to fry. Or other obstructions in the form of fallen trees to worry about. Do you know who owns the land? Sometimes a simple face to face request is sufficient.’

  ‘I’m averse to curtseying. And grovelling in general. And that’s what Mrs Greville would want before she even consented to see me. Aristo of the old school, according to Sue Clayton. The sort whose noblesse obliges others to do things. She owns your campsite, by the way. Bulcombe’s just the manager.’

  ‘I’ll practise my underwater bowing, then. Wasn’t there a Greville in some sort of political scandal?’ Ah, would that explain Sue’s ire? ‘Luke Greville? Must be twenty years ago. Would they be related?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. What sort of scandal?’ And why didn’t I remember anything about it? What was I doing twenty years ago that would blot out something like that? Ah. Dealing with Tony’s threats to have Mike’s wedding tackle removed and used as stuffing.

  ‘I can’t remember. I had other things…’ He shook his head, like a dog disliking water. He managed a grin. ‘Oh, some sort of grubby little hands in till scandal, I dare say.’

  ‘Not sex? No bondage and S and M with half the Cabinet? How disappointing.’

  ‘Not that particular scandal, not as far as I remember. In any case, if they were Maggie’s favourites they seemed to be able to get away with a few sexual peccadilloes. Money would be my bet. Anyway, he got deselected, and then they found him a safe Euro-constituency, and he’s off there now, legislating from Brussels.’

  ‘Perhaps they went on the same principle as Claudius’s for shipping the mad Hamlet off to England – one other bit of corruption wouldn’t be noticed in the shambles of European admin
istration.’

  His eyebrows shot up. He needed to trim them – four or five hairs, already old men’s tufts, were growing wild and unruly. ‘Since when did you read Shakespeare?’

  ‘Since I did my Open University course. You never asked how I qualified to run a pub, Copper. I’ll tell you. The hard way. When I’d done my first course with the OU, I thought it’d be more fun to study full-time, so I became a mature student. So if there’s a catering qualification going, I’ve got it. I practically took root at the College of Food. Waitressed, maitre d’h’d, administrated – oh, and cooked. There.’

  ‘Well, good for you. I have to hand it to you, Josie – you’re a woman of parts, aren’t you?’

  ‘Most of them much smaller than they were. Come on, Copper, just because I’m not going to eat one of those gorgeous cakes doesn’t mean you can’t. Good for the stomach, I’d say.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You took a risk, sinking that muck last night.’

  ‘Had to, didn’t I?’ He took a chocolate shortbread.

  ‘You men and your face-saving.’

  ‘Fortunately the stench in that open sewer of yours was enough to bring it all back without it hanging around. Hell, Josie, I’ve smelt some vile things in my time, but nothing like that.’

  ‘That’s why I had those Portaloos installed.’

  ‘Had.’

  ‘Hmm. They seem to have disappeared, don’t they?’

  ‘Dead cats; disappearing loos. Are the villagers usually like this?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s the first time I’ve crossed one of them.’

  And so to the library. It was such fun to be rooting around again. One of the best bits of all those years of study was going through the archives of a Midlands stately home and finding Elizabethan recipes and cross-referencing them with herbals to find the appropriate ingredients. I wouldn’t end up with highly-spiced mince pies (made with minced meat, not mincemeat); I might end with a spicy bit of gossip about Mrs Greville’s son. And I might find out why Nick stumbled when he referred to the scandal. Something that had affected him. Something that had given him his ulcer, stopped in its tracks the career of a highly talented police officer (yes, as Tony always used to say, praise where praise is due, and you don’t get to be a DI before you’re thirty, not without something between the ears) and now occasionally paralysed him. Like in front of all those TVs. And, from what Aidan said, in the middle of bell ringing practice.