A fatal feast at bramsfo.., p.18
A Fatal Feast at Bramsford Manor, page 18
“I’m getting a hint of cigarette smoke,” Brett said, picking up a hefty ashtray that contained two butts and a lot of ash. “Bean obviously smoked up a storm in here. It’s a smell that lingers and permeates the walls.”
Giff nodded in agreement.
“What about Old Spice Swagger?”
“Not smelling that,” he said, snapping a picture of the disheveled desk. He looked at Bunny, adding, “Although, to be honest, I’m not sure what that smells like.” He flipped through a couple of ancient-looking books and kept taking pictures.
Giff began opening desk drawers. “Bingo!” he cried at length, holding up a red deodorant stick. Sure enough, it had the words OLD SPICE SWAGGER written across it. “Is this what you’re smelling?”
Bunny pulled off the cap and took a sniff. “Yep. That’s it. It’s Marcus Bean’s calling card. Lads, I think he’s in here with us.”
“No way.” Excitement blazed in Brett’s eyes. “Where?” he asked, his head swiveling like a weathervane in a storm. Giff, on the other hand, looked much like Bunny felt: totally freaked out.
“I’m not sure, but there’s a very strong smell in here. I can’t see him if that’s what you’re asking.”
As Bunny spoke, Brett held up his smartphone and began taking pictures of the room, aiming in the dark corners, hoping, no doubt, to catch a ghostly image.
Giff, steeling his nerves, spoke to the room at large. “Marcus, are you here with us? We’re in your office. We’re hunting for clues.” His brown eyes shot to Bunny’s in question. He mouthed, Can you hear him?
“No, I can’t hear him,” she snapped. “I can only smell him, and it’s not overly appealing.”
“Great. That doesn’t help much.” Just as Giff spoke, the door slammed shut behind them, causing him to not only scream, but jump so high he hit his head on the low ceiling. “Ouch!” he cried, rubbing his head. “What the hell was that?” He said it so fast it came out as one word. His face blanched, and he looked ready to bolt.
“Shhhh!” Brett warned, keeping his cool. Bunny noticed that he was now recording the unfolding drama on his phone.
“It’s Marcus,” she told them. The hair prickling on the back of her neck confirmed it. As Giff backed up to the wall, Brett aimed his phone at her and nodded slowly, encouraging her to engage with the ghost of Marcus Bean.
Fighting all her instincts to run, Bunny held her ground instead, and swallowed. “Marcus, we’re trying to find the person who murdered you. We believe that you stumbled on some piece of information that got you killed. We’re looking for a clue. We’re hoping you might help us.”
When Bunny stopped talking the room became deathly still. No one moved. No one breathed. Nothing stirred, yet the smell of cigarettes and Old Spice Swagger remained. If anything, it was getting stronger. I don’t have the gift, she thought. Maybe I’m just an emotional wreck? Maybe I dreamed up the whole ghost bride incident last night? Maybe it’s all because I have a massive crush on my coworker and don’t know how to handle it? Oh no! She cringed inwardly, suddenly hit with the urge to cry. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but her eyes burned with unshed tears. Don’t cry, MacBride, she mentally rallied. He hates it when you cry! But she couldn’t help it. Amidst an off-putting swirl of aftershave and stale cigarettes, she felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow, regret, and failure. Complete failure. Heart-wrenching failure that was so overpowering she felt both sad and sick at the same time.
“Turn away,” she warned Brett and his iPhone as the floodgates opened. Ashamed, she bent her head to the floor as tears coursed unchecked from her eyes. She tried to stop them by pressing her fingertips to her eyes. Her efforts proved unsuccessful, so she was left with no choice but to wipe them away, employing the sleeve of her shirt to do so. That’s when she noticed something on the floor just beyond the toe of her shoe. It was a picture. Bunny plucked it up and quickly dried the teardrops that had landed on it.
The moment she took hold of the picture she was able to regain her composure. Marcus Bean was smiling in the picture. He was dressed in full British hunting attire—from a dapper tweed jacket to a pair of tan breeks and tall black boots. A rifle was slung over one shoulder while in his other hand he held a brace of quail. Standing next to Marcus was a man Bunny didn’t recognize. A handsome man also dressed for the hunt. While Marcus grinned for the camera, the man next to him was focused on the historian instead, his expression unreadable.
“What in the world?” Bunny breathed, studying the picture.
“That’s Marcus Bean,” Giff said, appearing beside her. He pointed to the man next to Marcus and grinned. “And that man right there is Alex Grimsby, stableman extraordinaire. Totally hot, right?”
“This is a clue!” she told him in no uncertain terms. “I think Marcus is trying to tell us something.”
“She’s right,” Brett said, standing on her other side. He was still recording. “I don’t think that picture was on the desk. Where did it come from?”
“It could have been on the floor all along. But it doesn’t matter. I felt him.” Bunny placed a fist on her chest. “Right here. I was overcome by sorrow and regret. But mostly failure. A real sense of failure. So odd. It’s gone now, thank heavens, along with that pungent scent.”
“Failure?” Brett questioned. “I bet it’s because Bean failed in his mission. He failed to make his big reveal.” He turned to Bunny. “I think you’re right. He wants us to help him.”
“Help him?” Clearly Giff thought they were both crazy. “I just got the stuffing scared out of me in this creep-tastic office, and now you’re telling me Captain O. S. Swagger is summoning us for help?”
“Yes,” Bunny and Brett replied at the same time.
“May I remind you that you were the one who wanted to contact him and solve this mystery.” Brett cast him a hard stare.
“I admit that I found the idea appealing. But I don’t care for his style. It’s spooky, and he made Bunny cry.”
“Buckle up, bro. This is just the beginning. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better.”
“On the bright side,” Bunny began, feeling much the same as Giff, “it looks like it’s time for a visit to the stables.”
Chapter 26
After enjoying the delicious ploughman’s lunch with Granny Mac and the crew, including a side of rich, savory French onion soup, Bunny, Brett, and Giff were ready to have a word with Alex Grimsby. During lunch, they had brought everyone up to speed, including the real possibility that the picture found in Bean’s office could be just that, a random picture. Yet Bunny didn’t think so, and neither did Granny Mac. Hopefully, they’d be able to figure that out once they spoke with Mr. Grimsby.
Bunny was also pleased to see that Betsy was back at work. With a dose of professional politeness, she had tended to their table, even smiling a little at Brett. Under the circumstances, Bunny found that encouraging, yet she still wanted to know just what Betsy’s relationship had been with Marcus Bean. Morgan had assured them that Betsy was too young for Marcus regarding a sexual relationship. Even if that was true, Bunny still couldn’t shake the feeling that Betsy and Marcus had been close, far closer than was normal for a young dining room server and the manor historian. Betsy had shed tears over him, knew about his big reveal, and possibly had known the nature of Bean’s discovery as well, but wouldn’t admit to it. In Bunny’s mind, she was definitely one to watch.
Before leaving, Bunny told Granny Mac about the scones she had made earlier, and promised they’d make it back for afternoon tea. With their sights set on the stables, the stars of Food & Spirits exited through the French doors at the back of the dining room and crossed the wide expanse of patio. As they headed for the two sweeping sets of stairs, they were awarded a breathtaking view of the garden and rolling lawn. It was one of those perfect autumn days, blessed with sunshine and a cool breeze. Brett and Giff, with their long-legged stride, practically ran down the right-hand staircase to the garden. Bunny happily followed but stopped suddenly on the third step. That’s when she was hit by a vision of a young bride. She sucked in her breath. It was like bad déjà vu. She knew that Bramsford Manor was a popular wedding venue. She also assumed that many joyful brides had descended these very steps to join their grooms in the garden below. However, the feeling that washed over her filled her with a sense of destitution—a feeling like being stranded on a desert island without hope. Bunny knew in that instant that the ghost of Ann Copeland haunted these stairs as well as her bedroom. But why? Surely Ann’s wedding to Sir Henry Wallingford had occurred in a chapel . . . or somewhere inside the manor, having taken place in December? Why was she out here on these steps? As Bunny posed the question in her mind, she was instantly hit with an overwhelming feeling of jealousy. Burning jealousy!
“Crivens!” Bunny blurted, fighting it for all she was worth. “Not now, Ann. I’m not doing this now!” Yet just as she spoke, she felt her knees weakening as the overwhelming emotion tingled down her legs and seeped into her bones. Although the wailing sadness of last night had been bad enough, this jealousy nonsense was far worse. “Lord,” she uttered to the heavens, grabbing hold of the thick railing to keep her balance, “please, help me!” As Bunny prayed, she closed her eyes, waiting for the emotion to pass. Then, as fast as it had overtaken her, the barbs of jealousy vanished. Her eyes flew open, only to see the white rabbit, Hopper, waiting for her at the bottom of the steps.
“What?” she breathed, having no idea what in the world was going on. The white rabbit of doom had a habit of showing up at the most importunate times. Determined to get to the bottom of it, she glared at the rabbit and ordered, “Stay!” She then ran down the stairs with the notion of grabbing him. But the rabbit, with his long ears, didn’t listen. Instead, he bounded into the garden and disappeared behind a bush. Bunny followed the rabbit, but he was nowhere to be found.
“Bridget!” Giff called to her. He and Brett were way out on the open lawn, halfway to the stables. “Are you coming?”
With her heart beating wildly in her chest, Bunny nodded and ran after them.
* * *
The handsome brick and timber Bramsford stables, topped with an overhanging slate roof, were fitting for such a grand manor. As Bunny entered the brick courtyard with the lads, several curious equine heads poked out of their stalls to greet them, ears forward and eyes bright. They were gorgeous creatures. Just seeing them induced a pang of homesickness. She’d grown up with horses, but none as beautiful as these. While Giff and Brett headed for the archway that appeared to tunnel through the building, leading, no doubt, to a paddock or two and the office in question, Bunny couldn’t help herself from walking to a softly whinnying black horse to say hello. From the nameplate on the stall, she gathered that his name was Zeus. She reached up to stroke his sleek neck, and said, “Well, mister, aren’t you gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” The reply, in a strong West Country accent, shocked her. Confused, she stared at the horse. That’s when the distinctly male voice added, “Most women aren’t usually that direct, but I like it.”
She turned in the direction of the voice, and blushed. It was the man they’d come to see, poking his handsome head out of the next stall. He was grinning at her. The picture hadn’t done him justice at all. Likely because the man had been looking at Marcus Bean and not at the camera. His sun-kissed brunette locks, a beard so closely trimmed it resembled long stubble, white teeth, and smiling light brown eyes, set Bunny’s cheeks on fire. Holy shizzle! She had to get him to stop smiling at her or she feared she’d run away.
“I meant . . . him,” Bunny clarified, tapping her finger on Zeus’s nose. Zeus went in for a nibble, and Bunny swiftly removed her hand.
“I’m crushed, but I understand. One cannot compete with a stud like Zeus. Literally a stud. Right, Ginger?” Ginger, the horse he was visiting, threw her head back in a gesture that resembled a nod.
“A stud, eh?” Bunny remarked, getting his joke. “You must be Alex Grimsby.”
“I am. And you are the celebrity chef with the ghost hunters. Bridget MacBride, I presume?” He was correct, and that fact made her blush even more.
“How do you know that? I’ve never seen you at the big house. If I had, I’d remember.”
Alex crossed his arms and rested them on the lower stall door. “I only go there when I have to, which isn’t often. My office is here, and I have a cozy little cottage out back. Come through the breezeway and I’ll show you.” Without waiting for her to agree, he disappeared. Talk about presumptuous!
It wasn’t presumptuous at all, Bunny realized the moment Alex Grimsby appeared in the middle of the breezeway, greeting her and the lads. He explained that he had spotted them on their way to the stables and had figured they were coming to talk with him. He then gave them a brief tour of the impressive building before escorting them to his office, located at the far end of the stables.
“Please.” He offered them a seat and took his own behind a stout desk. It was a rustic office, with serviceable leather chairs, a rough-and-tumble loveseat beneath a built-in bookshelf, and a couple of deer heads gracing the walls. It resembled a hunting lodge more than an office, Bunny mused. Alex crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and said, “I was wondering when you’d get around to paying me a visit. I’ve already talked with DCI Standish, but I’ve heard that you three are asking questions in the big house as well. I respect that. Maybe you can get to the bottom of this mess. After all, Marcus brought you here for a reason, although I doubt this was part of the plan.”
Bunny looked at the men on either side of her, then back at Alex Grimsby. “I doubt it was. Who told you that we’ve been asking questions?”
“Charles,” he said. “Comes here daily to check on the horses and to keep tabs on things here. His sister does too, but for other reasons.”
Giff’s eyes twinkled. “You, perhaps?”
“Lord, no. I have a strict policy to never dip my pen in the company ink, so to speak. Also, I don’t get involved with married women. Wish Bean had the same sense. You know he was having an affair with Morgan?”
Brett nodded. “We were told. Morgan confirmed it for us. We were wondering if her husband was the jealous type, or perhaps there were lingering bad feelings between Morgan and Bean.”
Alex shook his head. “Percival Green is an idiot and a snob. I do think he is jealous of Morgan, but I’m not sure his petty, self-serving nature would drive him to murder Marcus Bean. If he was going to harm Bean, he would have done it long ago, when he had found out about the affair. Trouble was, he was having one too. Regarding Morgan, once the affair had ended, she and Bean seemed friendly enough.”
“What about you?” Brett asked. He leaned in and placed the picture they had found in the historian’s office on the desk. “We found this picture on the floor of Bean’s office. What was your relationship with Marcus Bean?”
Grimsby picked up the picture and studied it. He looked at Brett. “You were in his office in the big house? Did you find anything in there?”
“Not much,” Brett told him. “It’s part of the crime scene. Truthfully, we don’t even know what it is we’re looking for. We’re still trying to find a motive. We were wondering if you could help us.”
Alex looked at the picture again before putting it back on the table. “We were mates,” he said. “Marcus was a good friend of mine, the only real friend I had here. Like Charles, he came out here whenever he needed a break from the big house and his work. If it helps, he was very excited to bring you here. History was his profession, but there was something about that morbid old Mistletoe Bride legend that really lit his fire. I think he thought that if you are the real thing and you did make contact with the ghost, it would help validate what he was working on.”
“Do you know what that was?” Bunny asked.
Alex Grimsby closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if troubled about something. “No. Not really. The ghost, I think. Bean could bang on about that all day if I let him, but I didn’t. Can’t stand that stuff. Not a fan of ghosts and that sort of thing.”
“Me either. Is that why you stay out here?” Bunny asked.
“It’s part of the reason. I find the big house too fancy for my tastes. The food is good. I eat an occasional meal there, but heading to the local pub at the village for a pint is more to my taste.”
“Mine too,” Giff piped up. Bunny ignored him and pointed to the picture on the desk.
“What’s going on in this picture?”
With a melancholy expression, Grimsby offered, “We were hunting quail. Marcus is . . . was an enthusiastic sportsman, but the man was a terrible shot. Those birds are mine. I let him hold them for the camera.”
“Who took the picture?” Giff was unable to pull his eyes from the handsome man.
“Charles took it. The three of us often hunted together.”
“You hunt here?” Brett found that interesting.
Grimsby nodded. “Bird hunting mostly. While weddings are the bread and butter of the manor, we do book several weekends each year during the proper season. I take the parties out. It’s part of my job. I manage the stables and do general land management for the Wallingford family. For instance, the horses kept here are not for our guests. The hotel guests are welcome to come out and tour the stables, but those are Wallingford horses. It’s Morgan’s passion. She’s bidding to host an equestrian event on the property. We’ll see how that goes.”
“Very nice,” Giff offered. “Now back to Bean. Two days ago, I was meditating in the woods over there and heard you two arguing. That was the day he was murdered. I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but would you mind telling us what that was about?”
