A Bitter Feast(30)

“They’re with Viv Holland’s daughter, Grace, and the dogs in the sitting room. Addie’s organized some games and snacks for them in there. I did make Toby and Charlotte change, and it was a struggle, I can tell you. But Kit’s been—”

She was interrupted by Addie, who took her by the arm, saying, “Gemma, darling, do you mind? I’ve some guests who are dying to meet you.”

Then Ivan brought someone to meet Kincaid, and when he turned to find Gemma again, she’d been seated at Addie’s table between two rather florid-looking gentlemen in country tweeds.

Feeling suddenly woozy, he took a chair at the nearest table and found he’d sat beside the man who’d accosted Viv Holland in the kitchen. From the frown on the chap’s face, he was still angry, and he knocked back a glass of the pink gin drink as if it were water. Kincaid had taken one sip from the glass a server had offered him and decided his head felt fuzzy enough without alcoholic help.

“I’m Duncan Kincaid,” he said, holding out his uninjured hand. “I think you must be the fellow who’s looking after Nell Greene’s dog.”

This earned him a stare, but lessened the scowl a bit. “Mark Cain.” Cain gave his hand a perfunctory shake, but his grip was firm and dry. “How’d you know about Bella?”

“My wife works with Melody Talbot. That’s Gemma, over there.” He gestured at the next table. Ensconced between the two men, who both seemed to be talking to her, Gemma, in her red poppy-print sundress, looked as if she’d been dropped into the setting by a painter. “She and I and our kids are guests of the Talbots for the weekend. I’m very sorry about your friend Nell.”

Shaking his head, Cain took another sip of his drink. “I still can’t believe it. She was fine yesterday. I suppose you never think you can lose someone in the blink of an eye.” He gave Kincaid a closer inspection. “What happened to you, then?”

“The same accident,” Kincaid said, a little reluctantly, but it would have to come out, and he had questions of his own.

Cain frowned at him. “What? What do you mean?”

“I was in the other car.”

“Oh. My God.” Cain seemed to deflate, his skin blanching under the tan. “I heard the accident was at the T-junction, but somehow I didn’t think about anyone else being involved . . . You must have— Did you see her? Nell?”

“Only for a moment.” Kincaid was unwilling to share more. Everyone was seated now, and cheerful women in aprons had brought round baskets, some filled with crisp, seed-coated crackers, others with small labeled jars. “I take it we’re to help ourselves, picnic style,” he said in an effort to defuse the tension. He picked up the little pot.

Ignoring the food, Cain clutched his drink and said, “Did you see him, too? The man with Nell?”

“Not really,” Kincaid hedged. “It was pretty chaotic.”

“Oh, Christ,” Cain said, as realization seemed to strike him. “That was thoughtless of me. I can see you were hurt. Very lucky to be in one piece, I imagine. And your car?”

“Totaled. But as you said, I was very lucky.”

“I just wondered . . .” Cain fiddled with his glass. “Well, if you had any idea who the bloke was. Jack, the barman at the Lamb, said he was in the pub last night. But he wasn’t with Nell, at least not then.”

Kincaid had no intention of giving him Fergus O’Reilly’s name—information that was, as far as he knew, known only to the police, the Talbots, and Viv Holland, and was still speculative. “Not being local, I’m not really in the loop,” he said with a shrug. Taking a bite of what turned out to be trout spread, he realized that he was starving. “This is amazing.”

“The trout is from a trout farm near Stow. They smoke it themselves. And of course the recipe for the spread is Viv’s.”

“I take it you’re friends with Chef Viv.”

Cain frowned and took another slug of his drink. Had he even registered that Kincaid had been in the kitchen when he’d shouted at her? But then he gave Kincaid a sharp look and said, “Heard that, did you? Well, obviously, I thought we were . . . I suppose you could say ‘friends.’ Very low key, you understand, because this is a small place and Viv didn’t want tongues wagging. But as of yesterday evening, Viv has cut me off like I was the plague. And Jack, the barman at the pub, said Viv knew the bloke in the car with Nell, and Jack sent the cops up here to talk to her about him.”

“Ah.” Kincaid ate some more trout spread while he thought about this. “I can see you’d want to know what was going on,” he offered encouragingly, while wondering why Viv Holland’s avoidance of Cain had coincided with the arrival of the London celebrity chef in Lower Slaughter. “Well, I’m sure it will all make sense,” he added with more assurance than he felt. His brain seemed thick as treacle. At the next table, Gemma was laughing at something one of the men had said, and Kincaid was beginning to wish he’d sat somewhere other than next to Mark Cain.

The aproned ladies were now serving plates of salad. Looking for a safer subject, Kincaid asked, “How is Nell’s dog?”

“Bella? She was a pup out of one of my litters, so she’s used to me and the other dogs. But I can tell she misses Nell. I don’t dare leave her out for fear she’ll try to go back to Nell’s cottage.”