the heat of gossip hot off the press.
“Annie just dropped round with the linen, and she just heard it from Charlie, who heard from his brother over in Cowton. There’s been a murder up in Farnley Woods. A murder!”
“Cor!” said Alf.
“That’s awful,” said Patrick.
Chef Maurice opened his mouth, then closed it. Dorothy would never forgive him if he stole her thunder now.
“And you’ll never guess who it was. Ollie Meadows! I said to Annie, if anyone was going to be murdered around here, it’d be that scallywag Ollie, always sneaking around in people’s gardens. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course,” she added primly.
“Blimey!” said Alf, absentmindedly biting into an apple. He’d moved to Beakley from the hamlet of Little Goving, population six. Life in the big village was currently exceeding all his expectations. “How’d it happen? Who did it?”
“Well, of course they don’t know yet,” said Dorothy, in the tone of someone who has watched their fair share of murder mysteries and knows how these things go. “But they know he was shot, right in the chest, they say. Puts a chill up you, that does. We all thought he’d just run off with some girl, and then bam, he turns up dead as a doorknob. Makes you think of locking your doors and getting a big Rottweiler, it does. And think about the poor soul that found him . . . ”
“ Oui , it was most horrific,” said Chef Maurice, tipping the last of the cream over his plate. “Arthur, he was almost sick. I think he does not possess the constitution for le crime .”
He looked up at his staff’s open mouths. “You do not know? It was we who found le pauvre Ollie, on our walk with Hamilton this morning.”
Dorothy’s face was a battlefield of emotion. On one hand, her boss had completely upstaged her, but on the other hand, she now had access to a genuine crime scene witness, which was one up on Annie, who’d only heard about it because her boyfriend’s brother was a police constable over in Cowton, and he hadn’t even been there.
In the end, the lure of premium-quality gossip won out.
“Oh my, that must have been terrible,” she cried. “Sit down, chef, let me make you a cup of coffee, and you can tell us all about it. It’s a terrible burden to carry, I tell you, to keep it all in. Best get it out, I always say.”
So the morning’s sorry tale was rehashed, with extra dash and daring on Chef Maurice’s part, and some light embellishment of his conversation with PC Lucy.
“Lucy?” said Patrick, looking up from prepping a tray of pork belly. “The policewoman who lives down near the green? Blonde? Er . . . ” He waved his hands. “Nice and . . . uh . . . ” His ears were going red.
“That’s her,” said Dorothy, with a grin. “Comes here every week for the Sunday roast. Always has the lamb.”
“She comes for dinner too, sometimes,” added Chef Maurice, who liked to get out into the dining room during service to shake hands with regulars, top up wine glasses and inject a little Gallic bonhomie into the room. And to make sure they all cleaned their plates, of course.
“Does she, um, come along with anyone?” said Patrick with extreme nonchalance, eyes focussed on scoring the pork belly all over.
“She’s often with a girlfriend, another police lady, I think,” said Dorothy, winking at Chef Maurice. “Not half as pretty, in my mind.”
“Right.” Patrick bent over, salting the pork with a look of ferocious concentration.
“So do the police know who did it?” said Dorothy, turning back to Witness Number One.
Chef Maurice shook his head.
“Of course, they’ll have to read his will,” said Dorothy, sudden criminal expert. “Find out who benefits the most, and that’s your murderer, nine times out of ten, I tell you.”
“Cor, that’s clever,” said Alf. Beakley was turning out to be an education and a half.
“Monsieur Ollie did not seem the type to have a will.”
“Do you
“Annie just dropped round with the linen, and she just heard it from Charlie, who heard from his brother over in Cowton. There’s been a murder up in Farnley Woods. A murder!”
“Cor!” said Alf.
“That’s awful,” said Patrick.
Chef Maurice opened his mouth, then closed it. Dorothy would never forgive him if he stole her thunder now.
“And you’ll never guess who it was. Ollie Meadows! I said to Annie, if anyone was going to be murdered around here, it’d be that scallywag Ollie, always sneaking around in people’s gardens. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course,” she added primly.
“Blimey!” said Alf, absentmindedly biting into an apple. He’d moved to Beakley from the hamlet of Little Goving, population six. Life in the big village was currently exceeding all his expectations. “How’d it happen? Who did it?”
“Well, of course they don’t know yet,” said Dorothy, in the tone of someone who has watched their fair share of murder mysteries and knows how these things go. “But they know he was shot, right in the chest, they say. Puts a chill up you, that does. We all thought he’d just run off with some girl, and then bam, he turns up dead as a doorknob. Makes you think of locking your doors and getting a big Rottweiler, it does. And think about the poor soul that found him . . . ”
“ Oui , it was most horrific,” said Chef Maurice, tipping the last of the cream over his plate. “Arthur, he was almost sick. I think he does not possess the constitution for le crime .”
He looked up at his staff’s open mouths. “You do not know? It was we who found le pauvre Ollie, on our walk with Hamilton this morning.”
Dorothy’s face was a battlefield of emotion. On one hand, her boss had completely upstaged her, but on the other hand, she now had access to a genuine crime scene witness, which was one up on Annie, who’d only heard about it because her boyfriend’s brother was a police constable over in Cowton, and he hadn’t even been there.
In the end, the lure of premium-quality gossip won out.
“Oh my, that must have been terrible,” she cried. “Sit down, chef, let me make you a cup of coffee, and you can tell us all about it. It’s a terrible burden to carry, I tell you, to keep it all in. Best get it out, I always say.”
So the morning’s sorry tale was rehashed, with extra dash and daring on Chef Maurice’s part, and some light embellishment of his conversation with PC Lucy.
“Lucy?” said Patrick, looking up from prepping a tray of pork belly. “The policewoman who lives down near the green? Blonde? Er . . . ” He waved his hands. “Nice and . . . uh . . . ” His ears were going red.
“That’s her,” said Dorothy, with a grin. “Comes here every week for the Sunday roast. Always has the lamb.”
“She comes for dinner too, sometimes,” added Chef Maurice, who liked to get out into the dining room during service to shake hands with regulars, top up wine glasses and inject a little Gallic bonhomie into the room. And to make sure they all cleaned their plates, of course.
“Does she, um, come along with anyone?” said Patrick with extreme nonchalance, eyes focussed on scoring the pork belly all over.
“She’s often with a girlfriend, another police lady, I think,” said Dorothy, winking at Chef Maurice. “Not half as pretty, in my mind.”
“Right.” Patrick bent over, salting the pork with a look of ferocious concentration.
“So do the police know who did it?” said Dorothy, turning back to Witness Number One.
Chef Maurice shook his head.
“Of course, they’ll have to read his will,” said Dorothy, sudden criminal expert. “Find out who benefits the most, and that’s your murderer, nine times out of ten, I tell you.”
“Cor, that’s clever,” said Alf. Beakley was turning out to be an education and a half.
“Monsieur Ollie did not seem the type to have a will.”
“Do you
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