Bunburry--Sweet Revenge Page 4

  “Are you wheezing?” Emma asked sharply. It was the first thing she had said to him since they left the Horse.

  “A bit,” he admitted. “I didn’t do so much walking in London.”

  She stopped abruptly and sat down on the grassy slope, hugging her knees to her chest. He flopped down beside her, trying to catch his breath.

  She gazed out over the village below, the cottages of honey-coloured stone flanking the narrow streets, the spire of the parish church pointing heavenward.

  “Oh, Alfie,” she said. “I would love to believe Edith, that it’s not the fudge. I’m so close to the whole thing that I don’t know if I’m thinking straight. That was why I wanted to hear from Olivia exactly what happened. And I wanted you to hear it too, in case I’d missed something, or was jumping to conclusions.”

  “You were jumping to conclusions,” he said encouragingly. “Probably because of Sergeant Wilson putting the frighteners on Liz and Marge. But now it’s all right. I was amazed when Edith started talking about the food poisoning so casually in front of us, but that’s because she didn’t think the fudge was to blame. And rightly so. You don’t get food poisoning from fudge, but you can certainly get it from salmon, or chicken liver pâté, or meat that’s being served up in a tent in a garden.”

  Emma gave a groan and put her head over her knees, practically rolling into a ball.

  “Alfie,” she said. “Alfie.” There was something about the way she said it that reminded him of Oscar’s tone just before he added “you dolt.”

  She unrolled herself and looked him with obvious disappointment.

  “It’s obviously not food poisoning,” she said. “The guests had a choice of dishes. They didn’t all eat the same thing. But virtually everyone got ill.”

  “Both of the starters could have given them food poisoning,” Alfie objected. “And the people who didn’t get ill were the ones who took the vegetarian option. You saw Olivia go for the vegan soup – I bet that’s why she wasn’t affected.”

  “I don’t know what the odds are of both the starters being off, but I would reckon slim,” she said. “More to the point, the guests started getting ill within what, two hours of lunch? That’s pretty fast for food poisoning.”

  Alfie felt considerably deflated.

  “Whereas it’s exactly the right time for them to have a reaction to the fudge,” Emma said. “Heather’s mother was fine. She’s diabetic. Olivia was fine. Does she look to you like someone who eats fudge? I’ll lay odds that the people who were all right are the ones who avoided sugar. The sarge was way ahead of us in working it out, and that’s why he came round to harangue Aunt Liz. Oh, Alfie!”

  For a split second, he thought she was about to hurl herself into his arms, but instead she bit her lip and turned her head away.

  “Can you imagine what it’s going to be like when people find out?” she whispered. “You know how quickly a business can lose its reputation. This is going to destroy Aunt Liz.”

  He had never heard her sound so despairing. She was always so cool, so confident, the consummate professional. He wanted to comfort her as she sat there, closed in on herself, but he didn’t dare approach her in case she misconstrued his motives. He envied women the ease with which they offered one another consoling hugs.

  She gave a faint groan. “I was hoping against hope I was wrong. That the sarge was just trying to upset Aunt Liz since there’s no love lost between them. But he had it all worked out. He’s a lazy, prejudiced sod, but he can be really sharp.”

  “I still don’t see what it’s got to do with him,” said Alfie.

  Emma shrugged, her arms still round her knees. “Heather’s stupid mother got in touch with him. He has to investigate, find out what happened.”

  “He’s not going to find much, is he?” asked Alfie. “As Marge said, there hasn’t been a crime. If something’s gone wrong with making the fudge, it’s an environmental health issue.”

  Emma fixed him with a stare. “Are you suggesting it was Aunt Liz’s fault?”

  “Not fault, exactly -”

  “This was nothing to do with her,” Emma flared. “You should have seen the work she put into renovating the kitchen – she’s meticulous about hygiene and doing everything absolutely correctly.”

  “I’m sure she is, but -”

  “But nothing! Whatever was wrong with the fudge is nothing to do with Aunt Liz. There’s no way it was a health risk when it left Jasmine Cottage. This was no accident.”

  Alfie felt a tremor of excitement. A deliberate act. In that case, Harold Wilson’s investigation wasn’t going to be the only one.

  “Your sergeant may have worked out the how, but he hasn’t worked out the why,” he said. “Someone decided to wreck the wedding, but who? When we discover that, Liz will be in the clear. And we need to do it as fast as possible, before people start gossiping about the fudge being to blame.”

  “We?” Emma queried.

  “You and me. An offshoot of the Bunburry Triangle.”

  “I don’t think so, Alfie. No offence, but this is important - and you’re right, it has to be done as quickly as possible. I don’t want you getting in the way.”

  “I want to help, not hinder,” he said. “I’m suggesting it precisely because time is of the essence. Olivia was Heather’s gofer, so I can be yours. I promise, I won’t do anything without your say-so.”

  She considered this. “All right. As long as you’re clear about the chain of command.”

  “Ma’am.”

  He found himself looking forward to working with her. She could be abrupt, but she was also astute and determined. Between them, they would outmanoeuvre Harold Wilson

  But if Alfie was to help, he needed to know more of the background. Something had puzzled him right from the start.

  “If you were friends with Olivia and the bride, why weren’t you at the wedding?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “This was a wedding for those and such as those. I didn’t qualify. Heather only chose our church because it’s so picturesque, and I suspect she chose Olivia for the same reason. She would look great in the photographs in her very simple, very classic pink silk gown with its appliquéd silk cotton lace.”

  There was no mistaking the sarcasm. Emma’s enthusiasm for the dress had been designed to encourage Olivia to talk, nothing more. And Alfie had to doubt the bride’s aesthetic sense. As far as he could see, Olivia’s chief attributes were being thin and having hair that could be coaxed into ringlets, rather than Emma’s neat, efficient bob.

  Given Olivia’s concern with healthy eating, it was ironic that Emma looked the healthier of the two, especially as she couldn’t cook and seemed to live on chocolate and crisps.

  “It was definitely no locals required – we’re far too rustic,” said Emma.

  That was puzzling as well. From what he had gleaned about his parents’ wedding in Bunburry’s parish church, it was the norm for everyone in the village to attend.

  “I thought you went to school with the bride and groom? Aren’t they from Bunburry?”

  Emma sighed. “Have you seen a secondary school round here? I had to travel. I was the country cousin compared to them. And Heather’s mum was obsessed with social status and money. She’ll be over the moon to have Greg as a son-in-law. A real catch as far as she’s concerned.”

  She suddenly snapped her fingers. “Got it! There was something in the back of my mind. It was a couple of years ago, a flower and produce show. Heather’s mum claimed someone had nicked her floral display to stop her winning, and the next thing, she’d called the police. I was on leave, so the sarge had to go. I bet she has him on speed-dial now.”

  “Sooner her than me,” grunted Alfie, whose encounters with Sergeant Harold Wilson were invariably unpleasant. With a shudder, he remembered those hours he had spent locked in the cells. “She’d better b
e careful she doesn’t get arrested for wasting police time.”

  Emma stood up and brushed some stray grass off her jeans. “No chance of that,” she said, putting her hands in the small of her back and stretching athletically. Alfie quickly looked away in case she thought he was leering. “The sarge loved every minute of it. He only hates the gentry because he’s got an inferiority complex. If he thinks he’s included, he can’t get enough of it. He and Heather’s mum are kindred spirits, always up for schmoozing with the toffs.”

  “Speaking of schmoozing with the toffs, how about me paying the Saviles a call?” Alfie asked.

  “Of course, you know them,” said Emma.

  There seemed to be a slight edge to her voice, and he wondered if she thought he was just bragging about his contacts.

  “I don’t have great hopes of David, but Rosemary’s on the ball – she used to be a nurse,” he said. “She’s calm and she’s observant. If someone doctored the fudge at the church, she may have noticed something. At any rate, they’ll be able to tell us about the guests.”

  “I heard you were at the Saviles’ filmstar-studded party. You took Betty Thorndike.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  He could say: “Yes, I asked her because I hoped we might have a relationship, but she thought I behaved appallingly, and she never wants to see me again. She’s actually left the country to avoid me.”

  What he actually said was: “Yes, the Saviles suggested that I bring a plus-one, and Betty was free. You were on holiday, or I could have invited you.”

  Why had he said that? He had been trying to suggest that inviting Betty had been completely casual. And then he had compounded it by trying to be polite to Emma. Now she would think he was coming on to her.

  She was staring at him, and he waited for a brisk putdown. But when she spoke, it wasn’t at all what he had expected.

  “Are you gay?” she asked.

  It was a moment before he was able to reply.

  “No,” he said, conscious that his voice sounded slightly hoarse. “No, I’m not.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” she said.

  “I know. Of course there isn’t. It’s just – I’m not. Why did you think I might be?”

  Why in heaven’s name had he asked that? He definitely didn’t want to hear the reply.

  “Just something about you. You always wear lovely clothes and you’re very good at coordinating them.”

  When she saw his expression, she started to laugh. “You’re so easy to wind up. I’m joking – post-modern irony. Don’t confuse me with the sarge and all his non-PC stereotyping. Although I do think you’ve got a great dress sense. Anybody can be gay, so I wondered, that’s all.”

  “I’m not sure why you should wonder,” said Alfie, hoping he didn’t sound defensive.

  He glanced at her and saw her colour seemed to have risen. Or perhaps it was just the effect of the wind.

  “Just …” She hesitated, then said in a rush: “I thought you and Betty were – anyway, I see you’re not, since she’s gone away. And when you said you could have just as well invited me, I thought perhaps it didn’t matter to you which particular female you took to the party.”

  “No,” said Alfie. “I mean yes. What I mean is, it wasn’t really important. I only went because Oscar wanted to meet his idol, Dorian Stevens.”

  He wasn’t going to bare his soul, admit that he had jumped at the chance to invite Betty as his partner, and then been summarily rejected by her.

  Liz and Marge obviously hadn’t told Emma about Vivian, and he was touched by their discretion. Liz’s discretion, he suspected: he could imagine Marge wanting to pass on the information that he was effectively a widower, and Liz insisting that this wasn’t their story to tell.

  He remembered how Marge had been about to tell him something about his father, the father he had never known, but had been silenced by Liz’s warning glance. He had only found out the truth from Edith by tricking her into thinking he knew all about it already.

  He suddenly wondered if Emma was gay. He had simply assumed she wasn’t, because of the ladies’ apparent desire to matchmake.

  Emma had asked him directly if he was. He could ask her directly. But what was the right word? Should he say “gay” or should he say “lesbian”? He didn’t want to say something that might offend her.

  And as he hesitated, the moment was gone.

  “I’ve got a friend in the lab,” she was saying. “I’ll see if I can persuade her to give me a heads-up on what they find.”

  “That’s great,” said Alfie. “And if the worst comes to the worst - ”

  She glared at him.

  “I’m not suggesting it’s Liz or Marge’s fault,” he said, trying to ignore that little seed of doubt. They had reacted remarkably badly to Sergeant Wilson’s visit. The sign of a guilty conscience? “But if it turns out to have anything to do with the fudge, perhaps your friend could delay any announcement until we’ve found out who’s responsible.”

  “I think that would be pushing it,” she said caustically. “So we’d better get investigating. Can you speak to Philip as well? He might have noticed something at the church.”

  “Of course,” said Alfie.

  “Right, let’s get on.” She set off back down the hill towards the village, speaking over her shoulder as she went. “I’ll get the names of the catering staff from Elsie, and talk to them. And I’ll get hold of the photographer and videographer and check their images, see if they can help us work out who was where when.”

  “Can you do that?” asked Alfie.

  “Of course. It’s amazing what I can do, given my uniform and a winning smile.”

  “But you’ve been suspended.”

  “You know that. And I know that. But they don’t.”

  She sounded almost cheerful, and Alfie realised his mood had lightened as well, now that they were doing something practical to help Liz.

  “And once we’ve got our list of suspects, we can check which of them saw Bridesmaids to get the idea,” he suggested.

  She laughed. “You know my methods, Watson. So now we’re a team, we need a name. Like the Bunburry Triangle.”

  A moment ago, he seemed to be a barely-tolerated gofer. He wasn’t going to complain about the change of status to partnership. Parallel lines, he thought unexpectedly, remembering his school geometry lessons.

  “The Bunburry Parallels,” he said. “We’re parallel to the Triangle.”

  “Terrible name. I love it,” she said.

  They continued the downward trek to the village, walking side by side. He recalled the maths teacher’s definition of parallel: two lines that don’t intersect or touch each other at any point.

  5. An Inspector Calls

  Marge was perched on the very edge of her rocking chair, straining to hear.

  “What do you suppose he’s doing?” she hissed.

  Liz stared at the shepherdess on the mantelpiece as though it was an alien life form.

  “Clarissa! I asked what you think he’s doing!”

  Liz turned slowly, apparently only just registering that Marge had spoken.

  “The inspector from environmental health!” said Marge. “He’s been in that kitchen for ages and ages. Why hasn’t he finished yet?”

  Liz gave a long sigh. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “He’d better not be damaging anything,” said Marge fiercely. “That new kitchen’s perfect. All the work you put into designing it, getting everything just so, exactly the way you wanted it.”

  Liz didn’t reply, and resumed her study of the shepherdess.

  “I know,” declared Marge. “I’ll go and ask him if he wants a cup of tea.”

  “I wouldn’t bother, dear,” said Liz wearily. “He’s scarcely going to accept a cup of tea from an establishment h
e thinks is responsible for an outbreak of food poisoning.”

  Marge began rocking to and fro. “I’m not really offering him a cup of tea. I want to see what he’s up to.”

  Liz sank back into her chair, somehow looking smaller than usual. “Please, Margaret. Just let the man get on with his job, whatever it is.”

  “But we don’t know, that’s the point. He said he would be taking samples. He could be ripping off bits of the surfaces. For all we know, he could be planting evidence so he gets a result and that’ll be the end of everything.”

  Liz flinched and Marge peered at her in alarm.

  “Clarissa, are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m not all right!” Liz, normally so placid, had a catch in her voice. “There’s a strange man sniffing round my lovely new kitchen. And – and Morgan Sutcliffe’s in hospital at death’s door.”

  Marge’s lips tightened. She got off the rocking chair and pattered over to her friend, sitting down beside her on the chintz sofa.

  “Liz, my dear,” she said hesitantly, “is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “There is,” said Liz. “I’d like to tell you to stop pestering me with ridiculous questions, and just to leave me alone. I’m going up to my room now, and I’d be grateful not to be disturbed.”

  Marge, open-mouthed, watched her get up and leave the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Despite what Liz had just said, Marge got up to follow her. But when she went into the hallway, she met the environmental health inspector who had just emerged from the kitchen.

  “Cup of tea?” she enquired.

  “No, thank you,” came the crisp reply. “I’ve got everything I need, so I’ll be on my way.”

  “How long will it be before we hear anything?” she asked.

  “You’ll be informed in due course,” said the inspector. “Good day.”

  As soon as he had gone, Marge darted into the kitchen. It seemed no different from when she had seen it last. She wondered exactly what it was the inspector had taken, and what it would reveal.