Eat, Drink and Be Buried (18 page)

London looked skeptical. “Hadn't he ever eaten fish and chips before?”

“Yes, but it was a different fish,” said Birmingham.

I had a fleeting concern about the Seven Seas operation. Perhaps that needed further investigation.

Somerset was waving to someone behind me. The others were looking in that direction, too. I turned. It was Angela.

She was wearing a flimsy summer dress in periwinkle blue.

Her black hair was even more shiny in the sunlight and her large dark eyes seemed as active as ever in the smooth-skinned face. She acknowledged every one of the stuntmen by name as they all gazed at her admiringly.

“Thinking of volunteering for the pike brigade?” she asked me with a slight challenge in her voice.

“Wouldn't dare to tackle any of these fellows,” I said. “With a brigade of men like these, King Harold would have driven William the Conqueror back into the Channel and history would be different.”

“Where were you last night, Martin?” she asked the tall, fair-haired one with the Somerset accent. “Thought I'd see you in the restaurant after dinner.” She struck a provocative pose with one hip thrust forward.

He grinned self-consciously. “Didn't see you. I went into the village.”

“Better-looking girls there?”

“None better looking than you, Angela,” he retorted. But she had already turned to Will, from Birmingham. “Maybe I'll see you tonight, Will. What happened to that moonlight stroll you promised me?”

“I'll be there,” he said eagerly. “Even if I have to bring my own moonlight.”

The others set up a chorus of catcalls and they all laughed.

“Will's not the only one with moonlight,” came the soft singsong voice from Wales.

“Is that right, Frank?” Angela's voice was a tiny bit contemptuous. “Do you have some, too? Or is yours more like moonshine?”

More laughs came.

“Sorry, Angela,” said London. He picked up his sword. “But it's back to work. Got to get these ragamuffins into training to fight those rebels.”

The others reluctantly picked up their weapons and once again the air rang with the clash of steel on steel. Angela sauntered over, not looking at me but watching the swordsmen. “They're good, aren't they?”

“They certainly are. Very expert. It must take as much training to avoid lopping off a man's arm as it does to do it.”

“Weapons fascinate men, don't they?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “They do. I suppose the more primitive weapons like these bring out the baser instincts.”

“I haven't taken you on a tour of the armory yet, have I?” She was still watching the mock battle.

“I would certainly have remembered if you had—but no, you haven't.”

“I'll have to do that very soon,” she murmured and drifted away like a blue wraith, her gaze still on the combatants.

I contemplated the latest tidbit of information as I walked back toward the castle.

So Kenny had been a boyfriend of Jean Arkwright, too. Would Richard have been jealous of him? The answer to that would seem to be a resounding affirmative. A blueblood of Richard's caliber would surely feel jealousy more deeply than normal, for there would be an innate feeling that no commoner should have the gall to challenge a nobleman.

Or had I read too much Sir Walter Scott as a boy? Perhaps twentieth-century democracy and the principle of the equality of man had long buried such preposterous sentiments.

I didn't see Richard as the poisoning type, though. He seemed more likely to walk right up to Kenny and punch him in the face. Still, my friend Winnie Fletcher, on Scotland Yard's Food Squad and no stranger to death, had told me more than once that “almost anyone can commit murder.”

I
LEFT THE DINING
area just in time to see The Muffin Man's van pulling out of the driveway. I wondered idly if he made two deliveries a day. It was customary for a bakery to deliver early in the morning while the bread was still fresh.

I didn't go away, though. I hung around outside the cafeteria, waiting for the warriors I had been watching. As they were still hard at their task when I left, I presumed they would be eating on the second shift. Sure enough, they showed up in about fifteen minutes. They appeared glowing in health from their activities and not as much as one limb seemed to be missing.

They were in small groups, which suited me fine. Frank was there with Alec from London and Martin from Somerset. I intercepted them as they approached.

“No accidents, I'm glad to see.”

Alec grinned. “We've had a lot of practice. Can't afford mistakes.”

I looked at the Welshman. “Frank, can I have a few words with you?”

“I suppose so.” He didn't seem too surprised.

Alec said, “See you later, Frank.” He and Martin from Somerset went on into the cafeteria.

“How about if we talk over lunch?” I suggested.

“Suits me,” he said agreeably.

After a careful survey of what was on offer, I selected a tomato salad, a bowl of carrot and lentil soup, and a sandwich of salt beef with horseradish sauce. I don't eat gourmet every meal and believe that, in this way, I enjoy those I do eat all the more. A glass of sparkling water made a suitable accompaniment and I wondered idly what would be on the menu that evening.

“You'll need to eat more heartily than me,” I told him. “All that exertion must burn off a lot of calories.”

“Never have a weight problem.” He took a bowl of potato and carrot soup; a sirloin steak with onions, mashed potatoes, green beans; and a slice of chocolate cake. He poured a cup of coffee and added plenty of sugar and milk. “Keep me going till dinner,” he grinned.

He had the typically dark Welsh features, curly black hair and bright blue eyes. Some Welsh look swarthily Gypsy, a similar strain to those known as “Black Irish,” but Frank Morgan was more open and friendly. Until now, he hadn't even been curious about why I should want to talk to him away from the others.

“I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you,” I said.

“After three police interrogations, I'm getting used to it.”

“It was you out of your group of four who asked me if I was a plainclothes policeman,” I reminded him.

“I did—and you said you weren't.”

He was scooping up the soup as if he were famished. I assumed that he was. I had had time while standing, waiting outside the cafeteria, to prepare my approach and I didn't intend to rush it. I picked at my salad, enjoying it but eating a small piece at a time.

“That was true. I am not a policeman. Not plainclothes or any other kind.”

He paused in his demolition of the soup, looked at me, nodded, then resumed scooping. I went on too.

“I told you I was working with the kitchen people. That was true. What I am doing is helping to rework the food being served in the medieval banquets. Make them more medieval but keep them authentic and even tastier if possible.”

He finished the soup, pushed it away, and began on the steak. It didn't stand a chance.

I continued. “As there is a suspicion that Kenny Bryce was poisoned, the police have talked to me on several occasions. I am a food specialist; it was understandable that the police would want to talk to me.”

I paused, pleased by how close I was managing to keep to the truth.

“I can hardly expect to uncover any information that the police don't have already, but I was with Kenny when he came into the tent. He was already suffering intensely. I stayed with him until he was taken to the hospital. So I feel a certain involvement. Does that make sense?”

He completed the dispatch of a large quantity of mashed potatoes. “Sure.”

“You and Kenny both played Sir Harry Mountmarchant along with Richard Harlington, didn't you?”

“Right.”

“So you knew Kenny well?”

“Pretty well.”

“You know Richard, too?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that Richard always ate a salad before he went out to do battle with the Black Knight.”

Frank cut another huge piece of steak, made sure it was amply loaded with onions, and put it in his mouth. It was not surprising that his answer was a nod.

“From the buffet,” I added.

He kept chewing. The steak looked very tender and I wondered if that much chewing was an excellent habit acquired in childhood or if he was stalling with his answer.

He had to finish eventually. I waited with patience.

“That's right,” he said.

“You see the point here, Frank. If Kenny ate anything that Richard should have eaten, that may be how the poison was administered. Of course, if it came from the buffet, that makes it very unlikely. Others would have been poisoned too in that case.”

He cleaned his plate and drank most of the coffee.

“It looks that way, right.”

“I'm sure you told all this to the police,” I said.

“All of it.”

“You knew Kenny and you know Richard. There might be some little thing that you didn't think of when you talked to the police. Was there? Anything at all? Now that you think about it more?”

He pulled the cake closer and reached for a fork.

“Can't think of anything.”

I had only one more card to play.

“You say that you know Richard. Do you consider him a friend?”

The question took him unawares. “Well, yes—as much as he can be. I mean, he's the son of a lord and—”

“Frank, you must know that if someone wanted to kill Richard and killed Kenny by mistake, they might try again. Next time, they might succeed. Richard's life may be in very grave danger.”

His full attention was on the cake. It looked as if four mouthfuls might do it.

“I don't want that to happen. I'm sure you don't either. Let me know if you think of anything. Or tell the police. Or even both.”

He finished the cake. He looked at me. “It's hard to believe.”

“I know it is. Events like this don't normally happen in life. But this one has happened.”

He reached for the coffee cup again, although I suspected it was empty. “There is one thing,” he said. “One time, when Kenny was replacing Richard, I was walking through the cafeteria with him and he stopped and took a salad, carefully wrapped, from the back shelf of the cooler. Kenny must have been with Richard and seen him do that—I suppose one of Richard's girlfriends in the kitchen made it for him. Kenny grinned and said, ‘If I'm replacing him, why shouldn't I eat his salad?' Ë®

“If Kenny did that once, he might have done it again,” I said slowly. “And it might have killed him.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Frank said doggedly. “I only saw it that once.”

By now the cafeteria was filling up. A girl in a kitchen uniform came to the table.

“Hello, Frank,” she greeted him warmly. “Enjoy your lunch? We'll be putting out pork chops tomorrow, your favorite.” She had blond curls and a bright smile.

He nodded, drank the cold dregs of the coffee, stood up, and left.

I thought I had accomplished something but the result would be like a soufflé—only time would tell.

It occurred to me that this was a good time to intercept people. They all ate at approximately the same time and all could be encountered either entering or leaving the various eating areas. I couldn't think of anyone else leaving the cafeteria whom I might want to talk to, so I decided to try the dining room.

The theory was working. There was Felicity just leaving.

“Eating some of your own produce, I'm sure. How was it?”

She smiled pleasantly, making no effort to refer to the last time we had been together. She was wearing a silky blouse in a sunflower yellow color and a skirt a few shades darker. “It was good—as it usually is. I had prawns in an Indian-type sauce, Jalfrezi, I think it was called. They were not from the Plantation of course, but everything else was—the duchesse potatoes, the lima beans and the grilled tomato.”

“Sounds tasteful.”

“They do a good job there.” We walked along together. “Speaking of jobs, how is yours progressing?”

“Coming along,” I said. “Victor and I have the menu worked out for the banquet after the battle on the marsh. This Empire

Society banquet, later, is presenting some intriguing possibilities. We're hoping to be really unusual and bring out a few surprises.”

“Yes, I'm looking forward to that too,” Felicity said.

“Do you get to attend all the banquets here?”

“Oh no, not all. But I was roped in as a patron on this one—or maybe it's a benefactor. I get a lot of those posts, can't always remember which is which.”

We paused at the turn that went to the castle. We waited as a vehicle went past us and I noticed the name on its side: “Newmarket Brewery Supplies,” it said.

“Is it making deliveries here?” I asked Felicity.

“Yes, to our brewery.”

“Your brewery? I didn't know you had one.”

“It's only a small one, just enough for our own needs. We used to have a winery, did you know that?”

“I certainly didn't,” I admitted.

“We did. It was here centuries ago, then a blight killed off all the vines and the winery went out of business. There were a few tries at reestablishing it but all without success. The winery had made mead, though, and that business continued. After World War Two, when the castle was being repaired and refurbished, the possibility of starting up a vineyard again was considered. But it was decided that the soil wasn't good enough so the buildings were turned into a brewery instead.”

“You mentioned mead. I noticed how popular it is at the banquets. So you still make it?”

“Oh yes, we brew all our own.”

“Fascinating,” I told her. “Can I see?”

Her look was enigmatic. Was she thinking, “You know what happened the last time I showed you a part of the castle”? I wondered.