Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

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Eat, Drink, and Be Buried Page 15

by Peter King


  "You may have to shower and change before joining the institute ladies," I told Felicity, "otherwise, they'll think you've been spending your time in questionable surroundings."

  She shrugged. "That's all right. More than once, I've shown up at meetings with cow manure thick on my shoes."

  "An excellent way to keep meetings short, I would think."

  We were about to part when I said to her, "Is Richard taking part in the Battle of Moreston Marsh?"

  "Yes."

  "Do I detect an undertone of frustration in that word? Have you tried to dissuade him from taking part? Without success?"

  She stopped walking. "I've tried and Daddy's tried. It's no good. He won't listen."

  "Doesn't he consider himself in any danger?" I asked her.

  "Oh, he trots out all the conventional replies, all the standard chauvinistic male statements. You know, life is full of dangers, he has his responsibilities to participate in these events, he's not going to be frightened off by an accident or two ..."

  "Is that what he considers these events to be? Accidents?"

  "He refuses to think that anyone is trying to kill him and insists that Kenny could hardly have any enemies."

  "The arrow that came between us? The gunshot that only just missed Angela and myself? What does he think about those?"

  "Those can happen any time, he says."

  "They can but they don't."

  She sighed. "Well, I'll keep trying to get him to listen to reason. Meanwhile, I have to go."

  "Tell the Women's Institute ladies to keep up the good work."

  She smiled, then stood on tiptoe and gave me a kiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was late afternoon and the kitchen would be starting preparations for the evening meals. I went to see how they were doing.

  Madeleine was in charge. Victor Gontier, she said, was in the dining room and involved in a discussion relating to the wait staff. She was slicing strip steaks and told me they would be grilled medium rare in ridged pans and served with a relish of oregano, onions, and olives.

  Sous-chefs and helpers were deep into various tedious but essential tasks. The inevitable chopping of potatoes, the trimming of asparagus, the julienne preparation of matchstick-thin carrots, and the cubing of pork loin for kabobs were underway. A tall, strong girl came in with a huge bowl of mussels and banged it down on a wooden bench.

  Jars were being filled from central containers-chopped lemon zest, sprigs of mint, slivered almonds, shards of bittersweet chocolate, bayleaves, cheeseballs, dried cherries. They would not spoil or desiccate in the jars, for these were of a size to supply one evening's cooking only. It was highly likely also that many of these ingredients would never get their names on a menu, though their subtle influence on a flavor might well cause guests to frown, puzzled.

  Madeleine gave a string of instructions to two of the souschefs, washed her hands, and came over to me as she wiped them dry.

  "Victor and I have been doing some research on eels," she told me enthusiastically. "Stewing in red wine was one of the earliest ways of cooking them."

  "I believe so. A bit insipid though, don't you think?"

  "I suppose they were. Then there were the eel pies you mentioned that they used to sell at fairs and at street markets. I looked up a few recipes for those-they might go well here."

  I agreed. "They were cooked menagere style, weren't they?"

  "Yes. Marinated in wine and spices, then fried in butter and put back into the marinade. They were put into the pie crust, layered with forcemeat with lots of chopped shallots and parsley, and baked. It's a good way of subduing the oily flavor-which is going to be the problem of matching it to modern taste."

  "Exactly," I told her. "You've hit it on the head. That's why smoked eel is so good-the smoking removes the oily taste. But that limits its use. By the way, always make sure the eel is no longer moving."

  She looked at me doubtfully as if she was not sure whether I was joking.

  "They have a very slow nervous system," I said. "They will go on slithering around long after death. They have terrified many an old lady-not to mention nervous first-year student chefs."

  "Like a turkey with its head chopped off."

  "Right. Cutting them into short lengths will deprive them of their active tendencies. Personally, I think the Hungarian style of cooking eel is one of the best. You fry the pieces with butter and onion, then sprinkle with lots of paprika. You cover with white wine and cook a while. You remove the eel pieces, boil down the pan juices, and stir in cream. You pour this over the eel."

  She nodded appreciatively. "That could be popular. Not too eel-like. Victor found some recipes for deep-frying in a light batter. That conceals their eely nature, too."

  "Also any good thick and spicy sauce can be poured over them. Victor probably knows plenty of those."

  "Oh, he does," she said confidently. "He's very good on sauces."

  "Yet another way that used to be popular-and is tasty as well as authentically medieval-is to dip them in beaten egg and breadcrumbs and cook them on a skewer."

  "That sounds old," she said. "We could cook them that way in the fireplace. Guests could watch."

  We continued to discuss ways of making eel palatable and then went on to talk about frogs. Madeleine said that Victor knew a number of ways of preparing those, too. She was a bright girl and was growing more and more spirited over the challenge of presenting really medieval food. She admitted that the castle menus had been tailored too much in favor of easy modification.

  I left the kitchen feeling more optimistic now that the level of cooperation was rising. As I came out, a servant in uniform was approaching, an elderly but spry castle retainer.

  "Ah, yes, sir-they told me I might find you here. There's an urgent phone call for you." He handed me a cell phone. `Just leave it in the kitchen when you're finished."

  A pleasant female voice greeted me. It had a vaguely familiar tone to it.

  "This is Dr. Wyatt. We haven't exactly met but we have people-friends-in common. Listen, it's very important that we talk at once. I can't explain over the phone but it concerns events at the castle. I live in the village-Stony Stratton. Can you come here right away?"

  The last sentence was couched as a question but it had a ring of authority that one might expect from a doctor. Even so, I was hesitant. She picked up on my hesitation. "It really is very urgent."

  "All right. Where are you in the village?"

  "Seventeen, Laurel Cottages. Do you know the village at all?"

  "A little. I know the High Street and the Post Office."

  "Laurel Cottages is a lane that runs off the High Street just past the Post Office."

  "I'll be there," I said.

  A shuttle bus was about to leave and I boarded, getting almost the last seat.

  The shuttle bus stopped in what was called the village square. It was hardly big enough to merit the name, its main feature being the Church of St. Anselm which fronted onto it. It was just a small village church, but it had one unusual feature, one seen in just a few churches throughout England: a clock set into its facade. The time was a quarter to five. As I got off the bus, a blue van went by. It looked like the one I had seen at the castle. It slowed, and as the bus moved away, I saw the van stop on the other side of the High Street. I took a few paces so I could see just where. It was in front of a cafe-restaurant. The sign said "Roberto's."

  It was flanked by a greengrocer's shop and a butcher's. Busy shoppers were going in and out. Adjoining the greengrocer's, the Ripon Arms was doing a modest trade.

  While I was watching, a young man in an apron came out of Roberto's. The rear door of the van swung open from the inside and the young man lifted out a cardboard crate. He took it inside the cafe and the van drove down the street. I believed that solved one mystery. Now for another.

  A phone box was in front of the pub. The Stony Strattonians were a law-abiding bunch-at least, they didn't vandalize their ph
one boxes. The thin phone book was neither torn nor battered. I opened it. Sure enough, there was a Dr. Evelyn Wyatt, and she did indeed live at Seventeen, Laurel Cottages, in Stony Stratton, Hertfordshire. So my precaution was unnecessary. But I had found myself in trouble before-trouble that could have been avoided if I had taken this same elementary step.

  The lane called Laurel Cottages was clearly signposted-an ancient cobbled thoroughfare that might have accommodated horses but certainly not vehicular traffic. To make certain that this prohibition was clear, two heavy wrought-iron posts were set to bar anything other than pedestrians.

  The cottages were upmarket versions of what were once called "workingmen's cottages," and still are in the estate agent business. All have been thoroughly modernized and are now quite expensive. The workingmen of a century ago would be turning over in their graves if they knew what their old homes were bringing.

  Gardens in front blazed with flowers. Door knockers, handles, and letterboxes gleamed polished brass, and the mullioned windows were clean and sparkling. Number Seventeen was no exception.

  I rang the bell. There was no reply. I tried again, still without reply. I looked up and down the street. No one was in sight. I tried the door and it opened. I stepped inside, feeling a slight shiver of apprehension.

  I called out. All was quiet. I went on in, carefully leaving the door wide open.

  The front parlor, as it would have been called in its heyday, was tastefully furnished without losing a period atmosphere. I went through into the next room. Books lined the walls, mostly massive medical tomes. Certificates and diplomas were hung behind a handsome carved desk with a green baize inset. File cabinets filled the rest of the space.

  I called out again and there was still no answer. I went into the adjacent kitchen-and stopped. A woman was slumped over the table.

  Her skin was still warm. I examined her quickly, but no signs of life remained. I leaned over her and inhaled. There was the faintest odor but it was sufficient. It was one I remembered.

  In my business, I have to remember tastes and odors the way an insurance man has to remember actuarial tables and a bookmaker has to remember odds. I had only smelled this odor once before, but that had also been from a dead body-the body of Kenny Bryce.

  The woman wore a dark blue sweater of light wool and a skirt in a tweedy pattern on a slim, trim figure. One arm lay across the table and her head was turned sideways alongside it. I bent down to look at her.

  She was good-looking, probably in her late forties. She was familiar-but where? Then I recalled. I had seen her twice before, and both times she had been at Harlington Castle. She was the woman I had seen with Sir Gerald.

  I checked for a pulse once more, then hurried to the study. Hadn't I seen a phone on the desk? Yes, there it was. I dialed nine-nine-nine and asked for the police.

  A female voice answered on the first ring. I replied to all her crisp questions and was told to wait where I was, the police would be there. I hung up and had not moved when-

  The doorbell rang.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A uniformed police constable stood there.

  I knew that the British police were wonderful, but this response must be a hot candidate for the Guinness Book of Records.

  "You reported a disturbance here, sir?"

  He was a youngish man, but he had been out of police training for enough years to view me with a careful mix of suspicion and caution.

  "May I come in, sir?" He was already coming in before I could answer.

  "Of course," I said. "You surprised me-"

  "Yes, sir. Now perhaps you can tell me who you are-"

  "No, I meant arriving so quickly. I had only just hung up the phone."

  He looked me over, then his eyes swept through the room.

  "We received the call about twenty minutes ago, sir. I was out at the hospital when it came in. I came here as quickly as I could."

  "Not my call," I said, keeping as calm as I could.

  "Ah, you called too, did you, sir?" I didn't like his tone of polite skepticism.

  "Yes. You'd better come into the kitchen."

  I led him into the kitchen. I heard him catch his breath as he saw the body. He wasn't that experienced, evidently, but he ex- tmined her efficiently.

  "The lady's dead, sir," he said, standing up and not taking his eyes from me.

  He took the cell phone from his breast pocket. His report was concise. He answered questions from a superior who was put on the line. He snapped off the phone.

  "We'd better go into the other room. I'll have to ask you a few questions before the inspector gets here."

  I knew the technique. Get a suspect or a witness to talk as soon after the event as possible. Compare their answers at that time to their answers to the same questions asked later. Pick on the slightest discrepancies.

  The young constable did a competent job. I responded to his question about my presence, and he looked up when I said that I was temporarily at the castle.

  "Ah, yes, having some trouble there, aren't they? Well, if you're there, you'll know Inspector Devlin."

  I admitted the acquaintance.

  "She'll be here in a few minutes," he told me. "We're lucky she's so close by."

  I agreed how lucky we were.

  The constable went on with his inquiries, digging deeper and deeper. All I learned was that the woman in the study was indeed Dr. Evelyn Wyatt and that this was her cottage. I didn't like some of his innuendoes-he didn't put them that way but that was what they were. Still, I kept my answers tight and simple. It was not that I had anything to hide, but I knew that when the redoubtable Inspector Maureen Devlin arrived, she would be asking me exactly the same questions-along with plenty of new ones.

  A .hour later, she was still asking. She had arrived after a few minutes, as predicted. Whether or not she would be in charge of this case, she didn't know yet, she said. But as she was in the immediate vicinity, she had been instructed to make a preliminary investigation.

  She did it with the same cut-and-thrust style I had already become familiar with. She sounded as if she did not believe a word I said, and she would pound on the same point from different angles, sometimes making a case from one word.

  When she had heard my story four times, I felt that she accepted it. Not enough to admit it by any means, but enough to get me off the hook. For the moment anyway.

  I became more convinced of this as I gleaned fragments of information from her questions. The local police station had logged my call, but the reason the constable showed up so promptly was that they had received a call twenty minutes earlier. She avoided telling me whether it was a man or a woman, but someone describing him- or herself as "a neighbor" had reported hearing a suspicious noise from Number Seventeen. That was what the young constable had been investigating. It was why he had concluded his business at the hospital and taken twenty minutes to get here, and it was why he was so surprised at finding a dead body.

  The distinct impression emerged that Inspector Devlin knew a lot about Dr. Wyatt. When I told the inspector of seeing the doctor twice at Harlington Castle, there were no queries concerning my knowledge as to why she might be there. I felt sure that the wily inspector knew. She wasn't out of questions, though.

  "So you have never talked to Dr. Wyatt?"

  I had told her that three times but I kept a tight rein on a sarcastic answer.

  "That's right. I have never talked to her in the flesh."

  "And when she phoned you today to ask you to come here, you weren't surprised to get such a call?"

  "I had no reason to connect the woman who called me with the woman I had seen at the castle."

  "Nevertheless, you weren't surprised?"

  "Let's say I was puzzled but not dumbfounded. I came right away because I was curious."

  "What did you expect to learn by coming here?"

  "I had no idea. She told me she was a doctor but nothing else. I had no idea what to expect," I added t
o make the point clear.

  She continued her patient and irritatingly repetitive interrogation. Finally, she came to the one query I had been waiting for. She didn't do so directly. She nodded as if satisfied and started to sit back with a body language that said she was finished. Then she rapped: "What connection is there between the doctor's death and the events at the castle?"

  "I can't think of one," I said.

  "Try. Try hard."

  I paused for a few seconds so that she could see I was thinking. I had been turning over that very point in my mind ever since I had received the phone call; so it was no problem for me to say, "Absolutely none, Inspector. I can't think what connection there could be."

  She studied me and her rawboned face hardened, if that were possible.

  "If there is," she said, and her voice grew raspier, "I'm going to find it. So you'd better be telling me the truth."

  I contented myself with the least of nods.

  "We find you in a room with a dead body. You say you came in response to a phone call. You say you found the doctor dead when you got here. Someone else, a neighbor, had already called us to report a suspicious noise."

  "Anonymous?" I asked.

  She ignored that. I took it to be a yes. "We could take you into custody," she said, though I could detect no emotion in the statement, "but I'm going to let you return to Harlington Castle. You are still doing that medieval food business there, aren't you?"

  Under other circumstances I would have hotly debated that description. I just said yes.

  She stood. "You can go. I'll talk to you at the castle tomorrow."

  I went. Quickly.

  The dining room had the pleasure of my patronage that evening. Finding the dead body of Dr. Evelyn Wyatt had taken the edge off my appetite to say the least, but I had to eat. I wanted a meal beyond the limits of the cafeteria but decided against a repeat visit to the banquet room. The dining room filled the gap neatly.

  A smoked eggplant salad provided a good start to the meal. For the main course, I chose the roast quail, stuffed with spinach and served on a bed of roasted leeks with wild rice and orzo pilaf. A guest nearby at the table had peppered lamb chops. They were accompanied by Idaho potatoes, braised in lemon-flavored chicken stock, then baked and lightly fried. Another had a walnutcrusted salmon fillet. With it came a sauce of garlic and cucumber whisked into yogurt.

 

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