settle like a lead weight somewhere in my stomach.
“So, Daisy,” he said, “what exactly do
you
stand to gain from Bob’s estate?”
I stared blankly at him. “I told you, I’m an employee. I have no expectations. And anyhow I didn’t expect him to die!”
“You were also the closest person to him, you know everything about him, all his secrets. Surely you must have thought about it sometimes? After all, he’s listed in Forbes one hundred as one of the world’s richest men.”
It sank in what he was getting at. I glared angrily at him. “Surely you can’t be suggesting that
I
killed Bob?”
He gave me that cool grin. “Well? Did you?”
8
Daisy
There was a tap at the door and Mrs. Wainwright poked her head in. “Dinner’s ready, Miss Keane. I’ve got the Yorkshire puddings just coming out of the oven, so if you’d like to sit down …”
“Right. Yes, of course, Mrs. Wainwright.” I pulled myself together, got up from the sofa and walked with the man who thought I might be a murderer into the dining room.
Mrs. Wainwright had set places opposite each other at one end of the long refectory table. Montana pulled out the heavy chair for me and I sank into it before my knees gave way. A bottle of Bordeaux waited in its silver coaster. He poured me a glass and said, “I’m sorry I shocked you, but you were Bob’s friend. I had to tell you. And it’s only a hunch. I have no proof.”
I nodded. “I understand now. It’s the reason you’re here.”
He took a seat opposite just as Mrs. Wainwright bustled in carrying a sputtering hot Yorkshire pudding tin.
“This is the way we like to serve ’em in these parts, sir, piping hot and crisp,” she said to Montana, spearing a fluffy pudding onto his plate. “It’s traditional to serve them as a starter, you see, with a good gravy. Why not have two, sir. I’m sure you’re going to like them. I’m known for my Yorkshires.”
“Mrs. Wainwright makes the best,” I assured Montana, passing him the gravy boat. Bob had liked his table set simply, just plain white plates and plain silverware. The glasses were beautiful, fine crystal, but also plain. Bob hated drinking good wine out of a thick glass. But why was I thinking about table settings? I must be losing my mind.
Under the table I felt Rats come and slump on my feet. I bent to pat him, watching Montana devour the puddings.
“These are fantastic,” he said, glancing up at me. “The only ones I’ve had before were in steak houses back home and they were like tough old pancakes.”
“This is where they originated, you’re getting the real thing now. Would you like another?”
He shook his head. “You should eat something. You can’t get through the night on one piece of jam sponge.”
I took a sip of the good wine. I checked the label. It was the one Bob had always served with roast beef. Mrs. Wainwright had remembered and opened it earlier. She came in now, along with her daughter, Brenda, who was about my age, with streaked blond hair, the clear pink skin of a countrywoman, and her mother’s blue eyes. She had two teenage children andher husband worked in the supermarket in the local town. I asked Brenda if he’d managed to get home and she said no, he was having to stop with his cousin that night, nothing could get through. Brenda lived a couple of houses down from the Hall gates but despite the drifts she said she’d make it back all right.
They set the dishes on the table, cleared our empty plates, gave us fresh ones and left us to it. On automatic pilot, I offered Montana the roast beef; passed the new potatoes tossed in butter and parsley, the roasted parsnips, the Brussels sprouts. I served myself some just for the look of it but I couldn’t touch a thing. Instead I gulped down the wine. Harry Montana poured me some more.
“They’re good people,” he commented.
“They’re all good people around here,” I said. “And there was no one better than Bob. These people
“So, Daisy,” he said, “what exactly do
you
stand to gain from Bob’s estate?”
I stared blankly at him. “I told you, I’m an employee. I have no expectations. And anyhow I didn’t expect him to die!”
“You were also the closest person to him, you know everything about him, all his secrets. Surely you must have thought about it sometimes? After all, he’s listed in Forbes one hundred as one of the world’s richest men.”
It sank in what he was getting at. I glared angrily at him. “Surely you can’t be suggesting that
I
killed Bob?”
He gave me that cool grin. “Well? Did you?”
8
Daisy
There was a tap at the door and Mrs. Wainwright poked her head in. “Dinner’s ready, Miss Keane. I’ve got the Yorkshire puddings just coming out of the oven, so if you’d like to sit down …”
“Right. Yes, of course, Mrs. Wainwright.” I pulled myself together, got up from the sofa and walked with the man who thought I might be a murderer into the dining room.
Mrs. Wainwright had set places opposite each other at one end of the long refectory table. Montana pulled out the heavy chair for me and I sank into it before my knees gave way. A bottle of Bordeaux waited in its silver coaster. He poured me a glass and said, “I’m sorry I shocked you, but you were Bob’s friend. I had to tell you. And it’s only a hunch. I have no proof.”
I nodded. “I understand now. It’s the reason you’re here.”
He took a seat opposite just as Mrs. Wainwright bustled in carrying a sputtering hot Yorkshire pudding tin.
“This is the way we like to serve ’em in these parts, sir, piping hot and crisp,” she said to Montana, spearing a fluffy pudding onto his plate. “It’s traditional to serve them as a starter, you see, with a good gravy. Why not have two, sir. I’m sure you’re going to like them. I’m known for my Yorkshires.”
“Mrs. Wainwright makes the best,” I assured Montana, passing him the gravy boat. Bob had liked his table set simply, just plain white plates and plain silverware. The glasses were beautiful, fine crystal, but also plain. Bob hated drinking good wine out of a thick glass. But why was I thinking about table settings? I must be losing my mind.
Under the table I felt Rats come and slump on my feet. I bent to pat him, watching Montana devour the puddings.
“These are fantastic,” he said, glancing up at me. “The only ones I’ve had before were in steak houses back home and they were like tough old pancakes.”
“This is where they originated, you’re getting the real thing now. Would you like another?”
He shook his head. “You should eat something. You can’t get through the night on one piece of jam sponge.”
I took a sip of the good wine. I checked the label. It was the one Bob had always served with roast beef. Mrs. Wainwright had remembered and opened it earlier. She came in now, along with her daughter, Brenda, who was about my age, with streaked blond hair, the clear pink skin of a countrywoman, and her mother’s blue eyes. She had two teenage children andher husband worked in the supermarket in the local town. I asked Brenda if he’d managed to get home and she said no, he was having to stop with his cousin that night, nothing could get through. Brenda lived a couple of houses down from the Hall gates but despite the drifts she said she’d make it back all right.
They set the dishes on the table, cleared our empty plates, gave us fresh ones and left us to it. On automatic pilot, I offered Montana the roast beef; passed the new potatoes tossed in butter and parsley, the roasted parsnips, the Brussels sprouts. I served myself some just for the look of it but I couldn’t touch a thing. Instead I gulped down the wine. Harry Montana poured me some more.
“They’re good people,” he commented.
“They’re all good people around here,” I said. “And there was no one better than Bob. These people
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