Eat, Drink and Be Buried (13 page)

Books dominated the scene, obviously, most of them in leather bindings and many gilt-lettered. Scattered around were busts perched on columns, while some shelves had a royal seal or a miniature attached. The feeling of antiquity was alleviated only by the unexpectedly clean and tidy appearance of the room and I congratulated Lisa on it. “Mustn't be easy,” I added.

Her milk chocolate brown face smiled to show perfect white teeth. “Well, we don't get too many customers,” she said.

“I see Felicity is one of them, though.” She was at the end of the room, absorbed in a large tome, and had not seen me.

“Oh, she's a regular visitor. Plants and all that kind of thing fascinate her.”

“So this must be where she got all the information for her Plantation.”

“Yes—and she still does.”

Felicity had heard our voices. She spotted me and came to join us. She still had a book in her hands—both hands, for it was a formidable volume. She saw me trying to catch a glimpse of the title and held it up for me to see.
Forgotten Plants
, the title read.

“Sounds fascinating,” I said.

“Some plants go out of fashion—like clothes and food and lots of other things. Others—never actually in fashion—just go unnoticed.”

“And you bring them back from oblivion,” I said.

“I like to do that whenever I can. You'd be interested in some of them—the ones you can eat.”

“I certainly would,” I said. “Lost leeks, overlooked onions—there's always a market for a food that's new and different, even if it's not really new but a grafted version of an old one, or a vegetable from the past just coming around again. Which reminds me—I still haven't seen your Plantation.”

She put the book down on a shiny tabletop. “Like to see it?”

“Very much.”

“Right now?”

“This very minute.”

She patted the book affectionately. “Thanks, Lisa. I'll be back for another session with this.” She took my arm as if she had known me for years. “Let's go.”

It was well named “The Plantation.” It was a mini-farm, cleverly laid out and well kept. Felicity delighted in showing me every plant, vegetable, and flower. A dozen varying shades of green were highlighted with splashes of color.

“I placed it away from trees, buildings, and hedges so that it is not shaded,” she explained. It was far removed from the castle, I noted. “I like to get every ray of sunshine on it that I can,” she added.

She referred to each plant and vegetable by name as if it were a personal friend. “Vegetables that grow well in the English climate are the primary aim,” she said. I could see beans, carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, spinach, lettuce, radishes, parsnips, peas, cucumbers. “Onions and potatoes somewhere,” I commented.

“Over here,” she said. “We use lots of those. Oh, and over there, we grow courgettes and melons together. They are related, so they can be rotated as a team.”

Trellises were erected here and there. They were on the north side so as to throw no shadow. “It's early for the blackberries,” Felicity said, “but these will be covered.” Teepees of poles provided support for plants that needed to climb.

“Nice color balance here,” I complimented her. Broccoli foliage lent a pleasing blue contrast to the green all around.

“And then this way we have our herb garden.” There was chervil, dill, parsley, sage, basil, rosemary, marjoram, mint, chives, and others, all laid out in neat plots. I noticed lovage, nearly six feet high, with its small golden flowers at the top. Walkways of stone slab and brick looked like miniature roads through the countryside.

Apples, pears, and cherries had a large plot of their own. “Then there's the greenhouses for potting,” Felicity said, “and also for the fruits that don't grow well outdoors.”

“You've done a wonderful job here,” I told her.

“We don't supply all our vegetable needs, of course, but a good share of them,” she said proudly. “Even less of the fruit needs, but that's because so many of them come from warmer climes than ours. Oh, we can grow oranges and lemons, but only about a quarter of what we need. We even have bananas and pineapples, but that's only to prove they can be grown in greenhouses. We have to buy in most of the exotic fruit, naturally. I was in America last year and arranged to buy seeds for growing mangoes, guava, and papaya.”

“There aren't many fruits and vegetables you don't grow,” I commented.

She paused to pull a few dead stalks. “I don't grow any poisonous ones,” she said.

“You're a very perceptive girl,” I told her, “but you weren't mind-reading. I wasn't thinking that at all. I really was admiring what you've accomplished.”

She turned her classic features toward me. “The point was bound to arise eventually. If you didn't bring it up, that inspector would. She gives me the creeps, that woman. Must make her a good policewoman, I suppose.”

“She is formidable,” I agreed. “As to the ready availability of all the veggies that go into a salad, the country is full of gardens and allotments that do that.”

“He's my brother; of course I know his likes and dislikes. Add your comments about Kenny being poisoned and, well, it all adds up, doesn't it?”

“It's not certain—”

“Not altogether, no.” She wafted a few fruit flies away.

“Besides, if Kenny was poisoned, we don't know if it was by the vegetables you're growing here.”

“Someone was trying to kill Richard.” She said it with a dreadful air of finality.

“Do you have some reason to believe that someone would want to?”

“He was out riding two weeks ago. His horse threw him.”

“That could easily be an—”

“No, it wasn't an accident. The saddle straps were frayed through.”

“Carelessness in the stables?”

“The groom swears that the saddle that was supposed to be used was nearly new. Somehow, an old one was substituted. One that had only a few strands left. It was bound to break.”

“At the time, I suppose you merely thought it was a mistake?”

“Exactly.” She sounded relieved that I understood. “I mean, it takes a lot to make you suspect a deliberate attempt to take someone's life, doesn't it? But now, with Kenny dying like this…”

I stopped by a magnificent row of strawberry bushes. “And what about you? Was that arrow really an accident?” I asked.

She plucked a strawberry, bit into it, then plucked another and handed it to me. “It's all right—it's safe to eat. We don't use any harmful sprays.”

It was delicious, rich and luscious. “The arrow must have been an accident,” she said. “Nothing else makes any sense.”

She was still savoring the taste of the strawberry, rolling it round her tongue. “Unless it was aimed at you,” she added reflectively.

We strolled back to the castle, our walk punctuated by sporadic bursts of thought and speculation. “What does Richard think about all this?” I asked.

“He's an ostrich. Thinks any suggestion that someone would want to kill him is nonsense.”

“What about Norman and Angela?”

“Selfish pigs, both of them.”

I caught her eye and she laughed. “Well, they are. Don't think beyond themselves. If it doesn't happen to them, they don't even care about it.”

We walked on in silence and were coming onto the lawn approaching the castle.

“Do you know Richard's girlfriend?” I asked suddenly.

If it caught her unawares, I didn't gain anything by it. She paused before answering, but not in a way that indicated she needed to think about her answer.

“Jean Arkwright, her name is. I've seen her in the village. Had her pointed out to me in the Post Office where she was working. Naturally, we in the family have this social gap that we're sensitive about. She isn't good enough for ‘our Richard.' That's the Harlington stance.”

“Understandable.”

“She's a nice enough girl from all accounts.”

“Is it just an infatuation or may it be the real thing?”

She sighed loudly. “Wish we knew. Father doesn't understand how it could be anything else other than infatuation, naturally. Angela dismisses it, thinks it'll pass with time, but then she tends to be a flibbertigibbet herself so she thinks it readily of others.”

I smiled at the Elizabethan expression. She went on, “Norman isn't too concerned about it, one way or the other.”

“And Richard? What does he say?”

“He says it's none of our business—which is wrong, it is our business if he gets serious.”

“And you think he is?”

“He should be at the age where he can recognize the difference.”

We were on the banks of the castle moat by now. The walls towered up to the first level of parapets, the thousand-year-old masonry impassive, seeming to offer its own comment on the family problem.

“Thanks for the tour of the Plantation,” I said. “I've been looking forward to it and the reports have not been exaggerated. It really is a wonderful achievement.”

“Good.” She said the word like a polite young lady, then changed her image completely by standing on tiptoe and giving me a firm kiss on the lips. “Nice of you to listen to the trials and tribulations of the Harlington clan. Next time, we'll talk about more pleasant topics.”

“I hope next time is soon,” I called out as she walked away.

A footman came up to me as I walked across the hall. He held a slip of paper in his hand. “Excuse me, sir, this gentleman wants you to call him.”

I did.

It was Edgar Sampson and he answered promptly. “Listen, I have to go to the London Heralds' Society day after tomorrow. I wondered if you might want to go with me?”

The London Heralds' Society is the core of the genealogical information network in the country. Most of their business comes from overseas, particularly Americans, Australians, Canadians, and others who want to have their ancestors traced. This is partly because they hope to hear that they are descended from royalty. At the same time, the heralds themselves, skilled at the subterfuge inherent in the spider's web of ancestral heritage, know just how to conceal the presence in the past of pickpockets, footpads, horse thieves, rogues, and vagabonds.

Still, more dexterity is required when fleshing out characters in bygone centuries who may be open to a considerable amount of interpretation. While the client might not want to admit to a robber in the family tree, a highwayman with his tricornered hat, his black mask, and his pistol might be acceptable as a romantic figure. Similarly, while harlots and strumpets would be frowned upon, courtesans and mistresses might be tolerated as racily romantic and worth a few points in a game of one-upmanship in the social contest. The heralds are expert at this—and who can say their interpretation is inaccurate after the passage of a century or three?

I knew some of this and Edgar filled me in on the rest. He continued: “You said you were interested in the Harlington family. The fellow I'm seeing knows more scuttlebutt than anyone else there at the society. After I'm done, you can ask him a few of your questions.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “Let me see if I can get a day pass out of prison here.”

“That lady inspector keeping you penned in, is she?” asked Edgar with a chuckle at his own wit.

We made arrangements to meet and I went for a hot bath, then a scotch and soda and dinner.

T
HE KITCHEN DID A
good job with dinner that evening. A goat cheese salad with the pungency of raspberry vinegar, the added crispness of endives, and a sprinkling of raisins and pine nuts set the mood. The endives were French rather than the usual Belgian; these are curly and many find them tastier.

I followed with a Carbonnades, a variant on beef stew, in the Flemish style. This has onions, bacon slices, and boneless beef stewing meat cut into cubes. The seasonings are thyme and bayleaf only, but added flavor comes from wine vinegar and brown sugar. The stock is only partly beef broth as the rest is a full-bodied ale. Noodles are the best accompaniment and these were just al dente.

Different versions of this dish abound. In Arles, they use olives and tomatoes; in Lyon, they garnish with wild mushrooms. The Cypriot style is seasoned with cinnamon and cloves, while the Spaniards deviate furthest of all. Their stew, known as
Cocido
, has sausages, green beans, and potatoes. The one I was eating was a true Carbonnades and one of those examples of a dish which is truly at its best when kept simple. Some medieval dishes were on the menu but it could be argued that a stew with a minimum of ingredients like this one must surely be of ancient origin.

Some fresh peaches were among the choices for dessert and I checked with the waitress to make sure they were from Felicity's Plantation. They were. The chef had warmed them in Burgundy with just a drizzle of honey and they were superb.

I took a stroll afterwards by way of aiding the digestion. The night was cool but pleasant and I gazed into the moat for inspiration. Felicity's story of Richard's earlier incident with the frayed saddle was not convincing evidence of a murder attempt on its own, but coupled with the poisoning of Kenny by boro-amine it made a much stronger case. The moat provided little inspiration.

Despite the impressive array on the buffet table the next morning, I ate a very light breakfast—orange juice, corn flakes with a banana, and coffee. I wanted to have a clear head for observing the culling of the deer herd.

I had not been invited to take an active part, which was understandable. They wanted to rely on marksmen proven accurate on earlier shoots, for a clean kill is important, not only for humanitarian reasons but so as to minimize damage to the carcass. Not that I would have accepted even if invited, for I detest firearms. I was curious to see the ritual, though.