“So what made me ill?” she asked, getting sharply to the point. “And how did you get my phone number? And how come you know so much about me?”
“Tell me,” I said, ignoring her questions, “how come you were playing in a string quartet at Newmarket racetrack when you normally play for the RPO?”
“I play with the RPO, not for them,” she corrected swiftly. “It’s a very important distinction.”
It reminded me of my father, who always hated people saying that he had fallen off when he maintained that the horse had fallen and he had simply gone down with it. That distinction had been very important to him too.
“So why the string quartet?”
“Friends from college,” she said. “The four of us paid our tuition by playing together in the evenings and on weekends. We did all sorts of functions, from weddings to funerals, and it was good training. Two of us are now pros while one of the others teaches. Jane, that’s the fourth, is now a full-time mum in Newmarket. It was her idea to get us all together last week. We still do it when we can, but, sadly, it’s less and less these days, as we all have other commitments. But it’s fun. Except last week, of course. That wasn’t fun. Not afterwards anyway.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m really sorry about that. But if it makes you feel any better, I was dreadfully ill as well.”
“Good,” she said. “Serves you right.”
“That’s not very sympathetic.”
She laughed. “Why should I be sympathetic to the infamous Newmarket poisoner?”
“Ah, but I’m not,” I said.
“Then who is?”
“That,” I said seriously, “is the million-dollar question.”
I am sure that Bernard Sims would not have approved, but I told her everything I knew about the poisoning, which, after all, wasn’t that much.
Our starters arrived halfway through my description of the dire effects of phytohemagglutinin on the human digestive system, and I was sure that Caroline looked closely at her ravioli as if to spot any misplaced kidney beans.
Thankfully, my pig’s trotter didn’t actually look like it would walk around my plate, and it was absolutely delicious. I did so love my food, but, because it was also my business, there was a degree of eccentricity about my appreciation of other chefs’ creations. Call it professional arrogance, or whatever, but I perversely enjoyed eating food that I knew I could have prepared better myself. Conversely, I felt somewhat inferior when I tasted something that I knew was beyond me, and this meal was. The pied de cochon, with its poached quail’s egg, ham knuckle and hollandaise sauce, would send me back to my kitchen with increased determination to do better in the future.
“So who do you think did it?” asked Caroline at last, laying down her fork.
“I think the more important question is, why did they do it?” I said.
“And?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I have spent most of the past week trying to figure out. At first I thought it must have been someone who was trying to ruin me and my restaurant, but I can’t think who. There aren’t that many restaurants near Newmarket, and none that seem to be going bust because of me.”
“How about your own staff?” she asked.
“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “But what would they hope to gain?”
“Maybe they want your job.”
“But I own the restaurant,” I said. “If they put me out of business, there won’t be any jobs to have, mine or theirs.”
“Maybe someone is jealous of your success,” said Caroline.
“I’ve thought of that too, but I can’t think who. It just doesn’t make any sense.” I took a sip of my wine. “I have another wild theory, but it sounds so daft.”
“Try me,” she said, leaning forward and giving my heart another lurch. Keep your eyes up, I told myself.
“I have begun to wonder if the poisoning at the dinner and the bombing of the racetrack are in some way linked,” I said. “I know it sounds stupid, but I am simply searching for anything that might explain why anyone would purposely poison the food of more than two hundred and fifty people.”
“How do you mean they are linked?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “and I may be crazy, but suppose the dinner was poisoned so that someone wouldn’t be at the races on the Saturday afternoon so they wouldn’t get blown up by the bomb.”
“Why does that make you crazy?” she said. “Sounds eminently sensible to me.”
“But it would mean that, contrary to all accepted opinion, the bomb hit the target it was meant to. It would mean it was not aimed at the Arab prince, and all the newspapers are wrong.”
“Why does it mean that?” she said.
“Because if someone was prepared to poison the food the night before the bombing, they surely would know by then that the occupants of the box to be bombed had been changed several days earlier. Also, I don’t think that anyone who was at the dinner would have been scheduled to be in the prince’s box, since the newspapers say that his entire entourage flew in on the morning of the race. However, seven people who were meant to be in the bombed box for lunch didn’t turn up on the day, and I know for a fact that at least three of those were missing due to being poisoned the night before.”
“Wow!” she said. “Who else have you told this to?”
“No one,” I said. “I wouldn’t know who to tell. Anyway, I would be afraid they would laugh at me.”
“But why would they?”
“Haven’t you read the papers?” I said. “The reports all week have been about the Middle East connection. Even the television reports assume that the prince was the real target.”
“Perhaps they have some information you don’t,” she said. “The security services must have something.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But according to the Sunday Times, no group had yet claimed responsibility.”
“But would they if the attempt failed?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Our main courses arrived, and we chatted for a while about more mundane subjects, such as our families, our schools and our favorite films and music. Without actually asking her outright, I deduced that she didn’t have a current boyfriend, let alone the six-foot-six bodybuilder I had feared would eat me for breakfast. It seemed that, just like being a chef, playing the viola every evening did not assist in the search for romance.
“I’m sorry to say it,” she said, “but most of the orchestral musicians I’ve met are pretty boring, not really my type.”
“What is your type?” I asked her.
“Aha,” she said. “Now, that is a good question.”
Indeed, it may have been, but, as she failed to give me an answer, I changed the subject. “Is the lamb good?” I asked her.
“Delicious,” she said. “Would you like a taste?”
We swapped mouthfuls on forks, her lamb and my fish. As we did, I looked closely at her face. She had bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a longish, thin nose above a broad mouth and square-shaped jaw. Maybe she wasn’t a classic beauty, but she looked pretty good to me.
“What are you staring at?” she said. “Have I got morel sauce down my chin?” She wiped her face with her napkin.
“No,” I said, laughing. “I was just taking a close look at this person who is suing me so that I will recognize her in court.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t really smile back.
“Yes, that now seems rather a shame.”
“You could just drop the suit,” I suggested.
“It’s my agent who’s insisting on suing you. He doesn’t like not getting his commission.”
“Does he get a share of everything you earn?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “He gets fifteen percent.”
“Wow,” I said. “Money for old rope.”
“Oh no, he deserves it,” she said. “He negotiated my contract with the RPO, for a start, and he got me much more money than many agents would have managed. Also, I do solo work when I’m not playing with the
