A Bitter Feast(2)

Now, as though sensing her notice, he glanced up. Raising his eyebrows in the direction of the snogging couple, he gave her a small conspiratorial smile. Blushing, Nell managed to nod back. Then, slowly and deliberately, the man winked at her before turning his attention back to his food.

Nell felt mortified. Had he been mocking her? But there hadn’t seemed any malice in his gesture, and after another moment spent nibbling at the remains of her pie, curiosity got the better of her and she glanced his way again. What was such a good-looking man doing on his own in the village pub on a Friday evening? Strangers weren’t unusual, as the village was a draw for tourists and holidaymakers, but you seldom saw someone unfamiliar on their own.

He caught the barman’s eye and touched his coffee cup. There was something in his manner that made her think he was used to getting what he wanted, and quickly. Well, why not? In spite of the slight eccentricity of the hat and the shoulder-length hair, his clothes were obviously expensive. Perhaps he was a guest at the posh manor house hotel in the village.

Nell watched as Jack, the bar manager, brought a fresh coffee from the kitchen and whisked away the man’s empty cup. Why only coffee? Nell wondered.

Having found alcohol too easy a crutch in the early days of her divorce, she’d given it up except for the occasional social glass of wine. Now she no longer drank alone, and she felt a little more warmly disposed towards a fellow abstainer. She’d readied another smile when she saw that he was looking, not at her, but towards the kitchen.

Bea Abbott, the pub’s manager, came through the kitchen door at the back of the bar. With a murmured word to Jack, she came round the bar and crossed the room towards the exit leading to the pub’s small garden. It was odd, thought Nell, that she didn’t stop to speak to any of the customers. Bea, with her dark curly hair and rimless glasses, was usually efficiently chatty. Nell had been glad to see her so well situated here.

In the corner, the man with the fedora watched the door close after Bea, then uncrossed his long legs and drummed his fingers on the table. His face was intent now, abstracted, and when his gaze passed over her, she knew she’d become invisible. Suddenly, he set his coffee cup down with a click and stood. He strode across the room, going round the bar and through the kitchen door without so much as a by-your-leave to Jack.

Nell sat openmouthed in surprise, but Jack merely frowned and went on wiping glasses with more force than necessary.

The snogging couple got up and went out the car park door, still entwined. The dining rooms on either side of the bar had begun to fill as Sarah, one of the servers, showed arriving customers to their tables. But over the increasing hum of conversation, Nell heard rising voices from the kitchen.

At first the voices were indistinct. Then Viv Holland said quite clearly, “You can’t just waltz in here like this, demanding things. Who the hell do you think you are?” Nell was surprised. She’d never heard Viv, the spikily blond creator of the perfect pastry, raise her voice.

There was an answering rumble, indecipherable. The man in the hat, Nell guessed.

“No, you can’t,” said Viv, her voice now high and furious. “I won’t do it. I told you—”

“Viv, come on, be reasonable.” The man again, more clearly now, with a hint of cajoling. His accent, Nell decided, was Irish.

Viv muttered something.

“Well, if you’re going to be a stubborn cow,” the man said, sounding less patient now, “at least consider—”

“No.” There was a crash, as if Viv had dropped something. Or thrown something. “You have no bloody right to ask it,” she said, close to shouting. “Now get out. I mean it.”

Conversation had died in the bar as the other patrons turned, wide-eyed, towards the kitchen. Jack stood, his hand frozen on the beer pull.

What on earth? wondered Nell, feeling terribly uncomfortable. She’d been intending to speak to Viv about Lady Adelaide’s harvest lunch tomorrow, but now she didn’t want to intrude.

The man came through the door into the bar, his expression grim. He pushed past Nell’s table without a glance of acknowledgment and slammed his way out the garden door with a force that left it banging behind him. His camel hair coat remained behind, crumpled on the sofa.



“Are you certain your parents have room for us all?” From the passenger seat, Gemma James gave an anxious glance at her companion.

Melody Talbot laughed and shook her head. “Gemma, I told you not to worry. The house has eight bedrooms.”

This brought Gemma little comfort. Eight bedrooms. What the bloody hell did someone do with eight bedrooms? Gemma had grown up in a two-bedroom flat over her parents’ bakery in north London, sharing a room—not always amicably—with her sister. Although she now lived in a very nice house in Notting Hill, the accommodation was due more to circumstance than means, and she was still intimidated by real wealth. She was a working cop, a detective inspector, and such trappings didn’t come with an ordinary copper’s salary. Unless, of course, you were Melody Talbot.

She studied her friend. Small-framed, pretty, her dark hair growing out a bit from last spring’s boy-short cut, Melody drove with confidence, her hands relaxed on the wheel of her little Renault Clio. Melody was Gemma’s detective sergeant, but it was only after they’d worked together for some time that Gemma had learned anything about Melody’s background. There was good reason for Melody’s reticence, Gemma now knew. Melody’s father was the publisher of a major London newspaper, one known for investigative journalism that did not always favor the police. Melody had kept herself to herself, afraid of being ostracized if her colleagues learned of her connection, until the events of the last few months had forced her to open up a bit. Still, Gemma had only recently been invited to Melody’s flat, and had never met her parents.