A Bitter Feast(31)
Cain looked so distressed that Kincaid tried once more. “Lady Addie and Chef Viv have done a great job of putting this lunch together. I understand everything was supplied by local producers.”
“I am a local producer,” said Mark Cain, sounding offended. “It’s my lamb Viv is serving as the main course.”
The aproned servers and the flowers blazing in the borders and the edges of the bright checked tablecloths fluttering in a rising breeze all seemed to run together in a blur of motion and color. Gemma blinked, gave her head a little shake to clear it, then wished she hadn’t. She frowned at her empty glass. Apparently, Melody hadn’t been joking about the strength of the cider, especially added to the potent prelunch gin cocktail. Still, all’s well that ends well, she thought, leaning back in her chair with a little sigh of contentment. The two men, both local landowners, who’d monopolized her over lunch—making her feel as though coming from London was exotic—had turned to other guests, and she was free to get her bearings.
At least she could see Duncan where he sat at the next table, next to a man who looked hard going. Maybe she’d been lucky with her gentlemen farmer companions. Kincaid looked up and caught her eye. She rolled her eyes a tiny bit and he grinned. Perhaps, she thought, they could salvage this weekend that had started out so badly.
She might even decide she liked the country.
The only blot on the cider-induced rosiness of her mood was Viv Holland’s distress. But when Addie had brought Viv out during the pudding course to thank her for her catering, Viv had looked flushed with pleasure.
Even with the quirky presentation, the food, Gemma had to admit, had been divine. From the creamy, smoky trout spread, to the delicate salad with roasted pears, caramel, and a local blue cheese, to the meltingly tender lamb and white beans served in camping tins, it had been of absolute star quality. What, Gemma had to wonder, was a chef so talented doing in this tiny village?
She nibbled at the last bit of her pudding. The little jam jar she’d chosen had held a mixed berry crumble with a tangy layer of crème fra?che—a dessert she suspected she’d find herself dreaming about. All round her, spoons were being laid down and empty jars examined in hopes of finding a smidgen more.
Soon the party would be breaking up. Gemma sighed again and stretched, wondering if she’d be able to cadge a cup of tea while helping with the clearing up, and if she could get Kincaid to go upstairs for a rest.
The colors in the garden suddenly dimmed. Looking up, she saw that the recent flutter of breeze had heralded a smattering of fast-moving clouds. Within moments, they had spread over the brilliant blue sky like a sugar glaze on a cake. She shivered, suddenly chilled, and wondered if she might fetch a cardigan. Glancing towards Addie at the head of the table, she waited for the signal to rise.
Addie stood, tapping her spoon on a glass. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us today, for the best the Cotswolds have to offer. We hope you will—” She stopped, giving a startled glance at the house. Turning to follow her gaze, Gemma saw that Roz Dunning had come out onto the terrace, followed by a big, dark-skinned man in a very dark suit. The man stood for a moment, surveying the group. Between the suit, the posture, and the expression on his face, he might as well have had “cop” emblazoned on his forehead. And not just “cop,” but “detective.”
Gemma’s heart sank. So much for the salvaged weekend. Whatever had brought him, it was official, and it was not good news.
Chapter Nine
Kincaid stood up so quickly that he tipped over his folding chair, wrenching his arm in the process of righting it. What the hell was Colin Booth doing here? In his dark suit, he looked like a crow among the summer pigeons. Ivan had already risen and was heading towards the terrace. Addie, Kincaid realized, had quickly recovered her poise and was thanking the guests.
When Kincaid reached the terrace a moment behind Ivan, Booth was saying quietly, “So sorry for the interruption, Sir Ivan. But I’ve had a word with the pathologist, and she’s found an excess of digitalis in our male accident victim’s system.”
“Digitalis?” said Ivan, frowning. “Isn’t that foxglove?”
“Yes. At least as a precursor. Apparently, once it’s broken down in the body, it’s hard to differentiate between digitalis and its derivative digoxin.”
“That’s heart medication.”
“Used for a number of conditions,” agreed Booth, “or at least that’s what the good doctor tells me. So it’s essential that we learn—”
“Have you confirmed his identity?” Kincaid broke in.
Instead of meeting Kincaid’s eyes, Booth shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and surveyed the garden. “I had a look at him. As far as I can determine, yes. But we’ll need an identification from someone who knew him better personally.”
Kincaid guessed at Booth’s discomfort. It was one thing to deal with the death of a stranger, but quite another to be faced with someone you knew, however casually or briefly.
“What about Nell Greene?” he asked.
“The pathologist is running the tests now.”
“Wait.” Ivan looked from Booth to Kincaid. “Surely you’re not suggesting that they were poisoned?”
Booth shifted on his feet. “I can’t say, sir. But we will have to ask some questions about Mr. O’Reilly, ascertain what he might have been taking, or have, um, encountered. And I need that formal ID as soon as possible.”