A Bitter Feast(50)

“I don’t have the foggiest idea.” His tone was unnecessarily sharp.

Melody had called them to dinner then, but Gemma had been replaying the conversation ever since. Kincaid was unusually touchy. She could put it down to pain, or the shock of the accident. And maybe that was the case.

But Gemma knew her husband, and she would bet her life that there was more to it than that. There was something he was not telling her.



Somewhere along the river, a barn owl hooted. On the summer nights when Joe sat out on his small dock, he would see them swooping over the field across the river, their undersides glowing ghostly pale against the velvet darkness of the sky.

Tonight, however, he was huddled under the porch overhang, as close as he could get to the warmth generated by the wood stove in the cabin without actually sitting inside. The temperature had dropped with dusk and he could smell rain in the air. Another owl called. They were busy, hunting ahead of the storm. He wondered if the voles and mice scurrying in the field could sense their impending doom, or if it came on them only with the sudden flurry of wings.

Shivering, he sipped at his coffee, but it had gone cold. He’d made a pot, trying to counteract the whisky he’d drunk after Roz had left. When he’d found himself staggering, he’d mumbled, “Enough is enough,” and tossed the dregs of his glass into the river. It would help nothing if he ended up falling in after them.

Now his head was beginning to clear in the cold air. There had to be a way to get himself out of this mess. Should he confess to Addie? God, how could he, after everything she’d done for him? He’d never meant to betray Addie’s trust. But he hadn’t known how to tell her about his family. Addie and Ivan had accepted him from the beginning for who he was—or at least who they thought he was. Would that change if they knew more? And if he didn’t confess to skimming the funds, and Roz told Addie . . .

That, he couldn’t contemplate. If Addie fired him, he had nothing. Nothing for himself, nothing for his mum, nothing to help his stupid little brother.

It all came down to Roz. Was his trespass worse than hers? Either way, they both had too much to lose. And Roz was frightened. Did that tip the balance in his favor?

He was going to call it a stalemate, for now. And he would do everything in his power to make sure it stayed that way.

The owl called again, near enough this time to make him jump. Lightning flashed in the distance, raising the hair on his arms. Blinking in the aftermath, he thought he saw something in the old elm across the river. It was the owl, and its white heart-shaped face was turned towards him, watching.



“Are you sure I can’t give you a lift, Jack?” asked Viv, coming into the bar from the kitchen. The dining rooms were empty, floors mopped, tables set for tomorrow’s morning coffee. Jack was wiping down the bar and racking the last of the clean glasses. She peered out the front windows. “I think there’s a storm coming.”

“I’ll be all right, Chef.” Jack’s words were a little slurred. When Viv turned to study him, she thought he looked a bit befuddled. Jack wasn’t teetotal, but it was unlike him to drink during service. Sometimes the customers would buy him a pint, but it usually sat unfinished on the bar. It was a cardinal rule of the restaurant business she’d learned early on—never hire a bartender who drank. Jack had never disappointed her.

“Are you all right?” she asked, frowning.

“Fine. I’m fine. Don’t you worry, love. You should get some rest.”

That was true enough. She was so knackered she wasn’t quite sure how she’d got through service. Ibby had been right beside her the whole evening, filling in the things she’d missed. But he was gone now, having caught a ride to Moreton-in-Marsh with Angelica. Although Ibby had an old banger of a Toyota, that was his usual Saturday-night routine, staying with friends, then getting a lift back in time for Sunday service at the pub.

Bea had left as well, a half hour ago, saying she’d have a quick look in on Grace before she went home.

Still, Viv hesitated, loath to leave Jack. Loath to leave the pub, if truth be told. It looked safe, and ordinary, and familiar. It let her think that this day had been like any other day, that nothing in her life had changed.

“Go.” Jack flapped a tea towel at her. “Don’t fuss, Viv. I’ll lock up.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I mean it. Out, now.”

Viv summoned a smile. “I like it when you’re bossy. See you tomorrow, then.”

But when Viv stepped into the courtyard, she saw that it wasn’t empty. Someone was sitting on the little stone bench by the cottage door. Her heart thumped. Then, as the figure rose, she saw that it was Bea.

“What are you doing here?” Viv whispered when they met in the middle. “You scared me silly.” Then her quick relief turned to panic again. “Grace—is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Sound asleep.” Bea seemed to hesitate. “Viv. I never had a chance today. I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry. I know this must be hard for you.” She enfolded Viv in an awkward hug—awkward, because Viv was a good deal taller, and awkward, because Viv could not let herself relax into it.

“Thank you. Really.” Viv gave Bea’s arm a squeeze and stepped away. “I don’t think I want to talk about it just yet. And not with Grace. Don’t say anything more to Grace.”