“And the coroner?”
Frederick shook his head. “His role is to decide the cause and manner of death, not to track down and punish the perpetrator. That’s a gap in our current system, unfortunately.”
Edgecombe frowned. “It would be up to me to pay this runner, and what would be the benefit? There is no bringing back Oliver now.”
“No,” Frederick agreed. “Although justice would be served if the killer is apprehended.” He watched Edgecombe with wary speculation. There had certainly been no love lost between publisher and author. Apparently Edgecombe had little interest in justice—he merely lamented the loss of his milch cow.
Frederick said, “You mentioned your brother’s death. May I ask how he died?”
Edgecombe nodded. “Heart failure. He’d been under a great deal of pressure.”
“Financial pressure?”
“Yes.” Edgecombe threw back the second whiskey and slammed the glass to the table. “Ambrose Oliver drove him to an early grave.”
14
The next morning, as arranged, Frederick began interviewing the rest of the staff. The effort required him to rise earlier than usual, but he didn’t mind. He was eager to do his part and discover any useful information—and hopefully before the inquest reconvened, so he could attend the proceedings.
True to his word, Mr. Brixton returned to the abbey early as well. He now stood in the hall awaiting the arrival of the undertaker and would join Frederick later.
Mrs. Somerton sent staff members in, one after another with little pause in between, beginning with the kitchen maids, grooms, and porters. He received little information from any of the young, green lot.
Next came the chef, Monsieur Yves Marhic, a dark-haired man with bushy brows, whose black whisker points showed through his fair skin, although it was clear he had recently shaved.
Frederick regarded with interest the man dressed in white. French chefs were in high demand. He was curious why this one chose to remain at the Swanford Abbey Hotel, of all places. After greeting him, Frederick asked, “I wonder ... do you likeworking here, Monsieur?” He added lightly, “In a place rumored to be haunted by nuns?”
The chef shrugged. “This does not trouble me. My own sister is such a one. Sadly, she lives far from here, and I do not see her often.”
Frederick nodded, then launched into his official questions. “Mr. George mentioned that a chambermaid besides Mary Hinton delivered Ambrose Oliver’s breakfast tray two days ago. Mary seems to have no recollection of this. Do you know who that might have been?”
The chef shook his head. “Non.C’estMary. She delivers to room threele petit-déjeunermost excellent.Oh, andle dînerone night also. Alas, she could not deliver yesterday. Instead she drop the whole tray. Every morsel wasted.” He spread his fingers wide. “All my work. Poof.”
“I know Mary carried up the breakfast tray the morning Mr. Oliver died, but I am asking about the morning before that.”
“Before?” The bushy brows lowered. “Mary, as I say.Tous les jours, Mary.”
“Did you actually see her?”
“Oui. I am very particularla cuisineprepared to each guest’s tastes be delivered to the correct room at the correct time.”
“Would anyone else have seen her?”
Again he shrugged. “Perhaps Jacques,monassistant. But with his head in the pots, eh, he is not the keen observer I am.”
“And did Mr. Oliver enjoy your cuisine?”
“Bien sûr!Mais, the first morning, he sent back the marmalade. Detests the marmalade. And my coffee. My aromatic Frenchcafé? Too strong, he says! Never before has my coffee been criticized. Alas, Monsieur Mayhew insists the patron must have his way. So.Alors. I make him the weak English coffee.Beurk!”
“You were angry with him.”
The chef laughed. “You think I kill him for criticizing my coffee? Ho! A crime in France, perhaps. But not here, where an Englishman would not know a good cup of coffee if he bathed in it!Héhéhé...” The chef held his rounded stomach and laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.
“I did not intend to amuse you.”
“Merci,monsieur.I have not laughed so well in many ages.” He wiped his eyes with the hem of his apron.
“And had you any other reason to dislike Mr. Oliver?”
