A Bitter Feast(18)

Grace had apparently got over her sulks enough to play with Charlotte, and the two girls were marching up and down the garden steps, followed by the now-panting terrier.

“Oh,” said Viv, as if the sight of Polly had reminded her. “The dog. What about her lovely dog?”

“Mark Cain has her,” answered Addie, and Viv nodded as if that made sense, but the nod was followed by a little frown. “But he didn’t—” She shook her head. “Never mind. We need to get the cold jars in the fridge and the tins in the warming ovens. And where the hell is Joe with my salad greens?”

“He’s in the kitchen garden, cutting the flowers for the table. He picked the greens first thing—they’re in buckets in the glasshouse.”

“Who’s Joe?” asked Gemma.

“My business partner,” said Addie. “He manages the gardens here, and sells the extra produce he grows in the kitchen garden to the local restaurant trade. I take a percentage.” She smiled. “Melody will tell you it’s quite feudal.”

“It’s brilliant stuff, is what it is,” Viv put in. “Seasonal, all organic, heritage varieties. He started out just growing for the pub and now every restaurant in the area is fighting over his veg, including the Michelin-rated kitchen up the hill.” She nodded in the direction of Upper Slaughter. “Addie better watch out or he’ll be digging up the rose garden for more growing room.”

Addie smiled. “Over my dead body. But I’ll send him up to the house with the salad stuff. He should—”

Whatever she’d been about to say was drowned out by a sudden cacophony of barking. Both Polly and Mac stood, facing the house, hackles up.

A tawny-haired woman in black trousers and a white top came out of the kitchen French doors.

“Oh, hush, Polly, Mac,” said Addie. “It’s just Roz—”

But behind the woman came two uniformed constables, a man and a woman. Unexpected visits from uniform were seldom good news.

“Grace,” called Addie. “Will you take the dogs up to the glasshouse and ask Joe to put them inside for a few minutes?”

Grace obeyed with only a curious glance for the officers, and the dogs went willingly. Charlotte, sensing something, came to Gemma and wrapped her arms round Gemma’s leg.

“Here, you go with Grace, lovey.” Gemma gave her a pat and watched with relief as she ran to catch up to the older girl. Whatever the officers wanted, she doubted a four-year-old needed to hear it.

Addie’s assistant, Roz, murmured something to the female constable as they crossed the terrace. As they reached the lawn, she called out, “Addie, these officers would like to speak to Viv.”

Viv, who’d been looking impatient at the delay, frowned. “How can I help you?”

“Miss Holland?” asked the female officer. Her name badge read PC MURRAY, and her companion was PC MCCABE. Murray and McCabe made Gemma think of an old-fashioned comedy duo, but these two were not smiling.

“Yes, I’m Viv Holland. Is there a problem?” Suddenly looking anxious, Viv added, “Is everything all right at the pub?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said PC Murray. “But your barman”—she pulled a small notepad from her uniform pocket and consulted it—“Mr. Jack Doyle, told us we might find you here. We were hoping you might be able to help us identify a man who was involved in a traffic incident last night.”

Gemma realized immediately who they meant, but it was obvious from Viv’s bemused expression that she had no idea where this was going.

McCabe spoke for the first time. “Ma’am, a Mrs. Greene from Lower Slaughter was also involved in the incident.”

“Nell? Yes, I just heard,” said Viv, sounding thoroughly puzzled. “Terrible. But what has that to do with—”

“It seems that Mrs. Greene was in your establishment, the Lamb—”

“Yes, I know the name of my pub—”

“The Lamb,” McCabe went on, unperturbed, and Gemma was beginning to find him as annoying as Viv apparently did, “until approximately 8 p.m. last night. As was a gentleman your barman described as being mid to late forties, a bit over six feet tall, brown eyes, with shoulder-length blondish hair. Your barkeep intimated that you could identify this gentleman.”

Viv stared at him. “Fergus? Are you talking about Fergus?”

“And that would be Fergus who, ma’am?”

“Fergus O’Reilly, of course,” Viv snapped. “But why the hell didn’t you ask him yourself?”

Murray stepped in, her voice gentle. “Ma’am, the gentleman had no ID. And I’m afraid he was deceased.”

“What?” The color drained from Viv’s face. “Are you telling me that Fergus is dead?”

Addie had a hand on Viv’s shoulder as Gemma pulled a chair from the luncheon table. Together, they eased Viv into it.

“Roz,” said Addie, “would you fetch Viv a glass of water?” Nodding, Roz turned away, but Gemma thought she looked almost as shocked as Viv.

“Viv, darling.” Addie gave Viv’s shoulder a squeeze. “Take your time.”

“His wallet,” Viv whispered. “He couldn’t stand having it in his trouser pocket, especially when he was cooking. He always kept it in his coat. And last night . . . after . . .” She swallowed. “Last night, when he left the pub, he left his coat.”