Eat, Drink and Be Buried (3 page)

He left. I had a half grapefruit, wheat cereal with a banana, and coffee. I headed for the kitchen but I had only gone as far as the main dining room when a servant in uniform accosted me.

“Have you had breakfast, sir?” he asked and I said that I had.

“Sir Gerald sends his regards and asks if you could spare him a few moments.”

Very civilized of him, I thought, and considerably more polite than a Sir Gerald of medieval days would have been in ordering me to appear before him.

“Certainly,” I said. “When does he propose?”

“Would right now be convenient?”

“That would be very convenient,” I replied. “Where do I find him?”

“If you'll just follow me, sir, I'll take you to him.”

He conducted me up a long stone staircase with plain iron balusters, curved outward so as to accommodate ladies' crinolines. On the first landing hung a large framed photograph of Queen Victoria at the time of the first Jubilee and a large oil of an ancestor, a duke. He was in military uniform, the painting in a beautiful rococo frame. On the next landing, we went along a carpeted corridor lined with early watercolors depicting the grounds of the castle in the eighteenth century. On one side, mullioned windows gave a view of huge bushes of laurel and groves of beech trees.

Sir Gerald was in his sitting room. It was a private room adjoining his bedroom and obviously served as a study. He sat at a wooden desk strewn with papers and books and illuminated by a large, elaborate bronze lamp. Lamps on the mahogany-paneled walls cast pools of orange light onto the Chinese carpet, too old to identify. Family photos, many black and white and some sepia, adorned the walls.

He was wearing a sky blue shirt and a pair of light gray flannel slacks. I had expected a dressing gown or at least a silk cravat. He greeted me cordially, we shook hands, and he invited me to sit.

“I had planned on talking to you this morning but I had not anticipated that it would be under these circumstances,” he said. His voice was light but it had a (largely concealed) ring of the aristocracy. I had not met him when I had arrived yesterday nor during the meeting when my mission had been discussed a week earlier. I recalled talking to him a couple of times during my visits years earlier and he did not look any different. He looked somewhat like the late Duke of Windsor, I thought.

“Yes,” I said. “I watched the joust yesterday evening and was one of the first into the tent to see what medical science proposed to do about the Black Knight's head. I almost jumped out my skin when Eddie popped out. I was talking to Don McCartney when he was told about Kenny being ill. I went with him to see Kenny and was there until the ambulance came.”

“A sad business,” said Sir Gerald. From what I knew of him, he cared about every man and woman who worked on the estate. The death of one of them would hit him hard. “Hopefully, we'll learn more of the circumstances when the police arrive. I understand we can expect them at any moment.”

“So I believe,” I said politely.

He leaned back. “I wanted to talk to you before they came,” he said. “This is why—it's about my son, Richard. I suppose you've heard by now, he should have been in the joust.” He gave a wan smile. “We're a tight community here. Word gets around.”

I nodded.

“Kenny replaced him,” he went on. “What this has to do with Kenny's death I don't know, but I'd like you to see what you can find out. Oh, I know you're here on the other business, but that's all right. You can do that too. It's a good cover.”

He looked at me expectantly. “You will do it, won't you?”

“I'm not really a detective,” I told him. It was an explanation that I seemed to have to make often. “I don't have a license, I'm not—”

“I know, I know. I've made some inquiries. You did a fine job for Desmond Lansdown. He recommends you very strongly.”

“Ah, yes. He asked me to go to Italy and pick a chef for his new restaurant. Some difficulties arose…”

“A man was murdered, I understand,” Sir Gerald said.

“Well, yes,” I murmured.

“Desmond and I belong to the same club.”

Desmond is a blabbermouth, I was tempted to say but didn't. Instead, I said, “On that occasion in Italy, I was able to help the police apprehend the criminal.” That sounded like the right terminology. “But we don't know that we have a crime or a criminal in this case,” I continued.

“In that case, your task will be easy,” Sir Gerald countered smoothly. “You will be able to earn double your fee with little additional effort.”

“Double?”

“Yes. I am prepared to double your fee if you will undertake this task for me.”

I was already contracted to do the menu thing for a fee that was agreed at a level higher than I had hoped. Now it was going to be doubled! Greedy, I warned myself, greedy. At the mention of money, you start to salivate. You should only do that at the sight of a plump roast pheasant, browned to perfection…

Sir Gerald started to turn the screw. “I have four children. You will meet them all if you haven't already. Two boys and two girls. Richard is the eldest. He's a headstrong boy and gets into trouble easily. Oh, never any serious problems, but there's a girl in the village he's taken a fancy to—she's the one he was with last night when he should have been in the arena.” He paused and smiled wryly. “I say, ‘should have been in the arena.' I have tried to dissuade him time and time again from risking life and limb that way, but he finds it exhilarating. Perhaps at that age, I would have too. If I remember correctly, with me it was ballooning.”

“I was getting the impression that the joust is not that dangerous,” I said. “Steel in the right places, aluminum everywhere else. Spring-loaded lances, highly trained horses, thoroughly rehearsed—the risk seems to have been taken out of it.”

“We've done as much as we can. In fact, we've done a lot. It's probably the most spectacular and realistic show of its kind in Europe. We've never had an accident.” He stopped and smiled. “Oh, as you get older, you get more timid, I know. Slender as the risk is, I worry about Richard out there.”

“In this case, he wasn't out there.” I was determined not to be too compliant.

He waved a hand. “All I ask is that you stay around for a few days, stretch out your task with the food if you have to. The business with Richard probably has nothing to do with Kenny's death.” His voice took on a harder tone. “I believe you told Don McCartney that you thought Kenny had been poisoned?”

Served me right for thinking Desmond Lansdown a blabbermouth. The pot has no right to criticize the color of the kettle. “He did appear to have many of the symptoms,” I began to say.

“There you are then. Another perfectly valid reason to have you keeping an extra sharp eye. We don't want any fingers pointed at our cooking, do we?”

He had me, fair and square. I could even justify myself accepting a doubling of my fee. I had to ask, though, and this was the best time to ask it.

“Sir Gerald, there isn't anything else I should know, is there? About Richard, about Kenny, about anyone else? About the circumstances of Kenny's death? Or anything else here at the castle?”

Was there just the slightest flicker of hesitation? Maybe it was just a natural caution in answering that would be typical of a man of breeding and background. In either case, I didn't have the chance to decide because there was a discreet tap at the door. Sir Gerald called out, the door opened, and the uniformed servant who had conducted me here poked his head inside.

“Pardon me, Sir Gerald. The inspector from the police is here.”

T
HE NORTH WING OF
Harlington Castle was, I learned, the least used portion of the edifice. All of the other parts were in active use at all times, but the north wing had not been fully restored and the rooms in it were either empty or used as storerooms. One large room, with full-length windows looking out onto extensive flower beds, had been quickly converted into a temporary operations office for the police.

Due to the large number of people they would want to interview, it was more practical to do it here than keep driving them to police headquarters in the city of Hertford. From the point of view of the people at the castle, this was preferable anyway as it minimized disruption to the routine.

The public announcement system normally operated separately in the various segments of the castle and its grounds, but now it was universal and calls were being put out for groups and for individuals to present themselves at the police operations room.

Sir Gerald's status gained him preferential treatment and he didn't have to suffer the indignity of being brought in for questioning along with the common herd. “You'd better stay,” he said. “The police will want to know what you're doing here and it might go down better if I explain.”

It was not that Sir Gerald appeared to be the kind who would seek better treatment, though. His manner was affable and friendly, with no trace of condescension. I noticed that he spoke to servants in the same amiable fashion.

We heard footsteps and a muffled exchange of words outside before the long arm of the law entered.

“Inspector Devlin, Hertfordshire Police.” Sir Gerald greeted the inspector and introduced me. Sir Gerald invited us to sit and we did so. Inspector Devlin had a long, gaunt face. It was the face of one who has witnessed many crimes and misdemeanors, not to mention all of the sins to which flesh is said to be heir. The head of unabashed gray hair verged on the untidy. The eyes suggested that their owner was not going to believe a single word you said. The tall, ungainly body sat in the comfortable chair uneasily, restlessly, as if eager to be out of there, solving crimes and bringing villains to book.

She was a very daunting figure.

She started in a minor key. Her voice grated and she spoke in long bursts, swiftly as if wanting to get the whole interview over with, but it seemed likely that that was a false impression. She was probably a bulldog when she got her teeth into something. I hoped it wouldn't be me.

“I am aware, Sir Gerald, that you were not directly involved in this distressing event. I will be talking to those who were”—she didn't glance in my direction so I didn't know if she was aware that included me—“but I wanted to speak to you first.”

“I appreciate that, Inspector.” Sir Gerald put a slight additional polish on his already formidable facade. He managed to amplify his position as master of the manor merely by the lordly way he sat relaxed behind his large desk. “If there is anything that can be done to facilitate your task here, please be assured that every effort will be made to do it. I hope you will not hesitate to come to me if you have any problem, no matter what it is.”

“I won't hesitate,” said Inspector Devlin, and her gritty tone emphasized her intention to do just that. “Now perhaps you can outline for me—just what happened as you know it.”

Sir Gerald did so, briefly and succinctly. The inspector nodded sharply and her eyes swiveled to me. “And this gentleman?”

“We have been very successful here, I'm pleased to say.” Sir Gerald sounded like the chairman of the board presenting the annual report. “The tours, the exhibits, the entertainments—all have been expanded and improved since we first opened nearly ten years ago. Recently, however, we decided that we have been remiss in one area. People today have become much more aware of food than they used to be, cookbooks are being written by the hundred, food critics are treated like gurus, and television channels devote much attention to the subject. We decided that we needed to present meals that are more in keeping with our theme of the Middle Ages. That is why we called in this gentleman to advise.”

He leaned forward to push a card across the desk. The inspector picked it up. It was mine, the one I had presented on arrival. The inspector's eyes glinted. They went from me to the card. I knew what was coming. It had come on previous occasions.

“You're a detective.” The inspector might have been accusing me of one of the more beastly of a myriad perversions.

“It's a nickname,” I hastened to explain. “The Gourmet Detective. You see, I look for unusual foods, rare spices, exotic recipes, that kind of thing. I advise on specialty foods and cooking methods. Here, it's a matter of bringing the food served in line with the Middle Ages. Well, as far as we can, anyway.”

“You have a license?” The voice was still condemning.

“I'm not a private investigator. I'm a sort of food-finder, only in food. Not a detective at all, well, not really.” I stopped there. Anything more would make it worse.

She put my card back on Sir Gerald's desk. She did it quickly as if wanting to get rid of it before she became contaminated. “I'll talk to you later,” she said. Perhaps the menace in her voice was purely in my imagination.

To Sir Gerald, she said, “I understand that the man who died was a stuntman.”

“That's correct.”

“In your permanent employ?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn't play this role every performance?”

“No. They rotated.”

“How many of them?”

“Three. Kenny Bryce, the man who died, Frank Morgan, another stuntman, and my son, Richard.”

The inspector digested that for second. Not allowing tact to stand in her way, she said, “You permitted your son to participate in this—contest?”

“It's quite safe.” Sir Gerald's tone tightened. “We take every precaution. No one has ever been hurt.”

“Until now.”

“This didn't happen during the contest. It was—something else.”

“But your son was supposed to play Sir Harry at this performance, wasn't he?”

For the short time she had been here, Inspector Devlin had gathered a lot of facts.