I flick the menu in my hands. “Yes, I imagine you must be very busy working on your new dessert special.”
At least he has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “Hehehe, I cannot say I am sorry. I heard you and Dr Radcliffe found Madame Horrible yesterday. Word travels around très vite in Oxford, particularly in our small circle of culinary experts.”
Harry was right about this guy. Not an ounce of sympathy in him. I skip straight to business. “Then you can guess why I am here.”
“The autumn gala?” He glances back at the hostess, his sneer back in place. “I cannot help you, even if I so desired…” Catching my eye, he puts the final nail in the coffin, “… and I do not.”
Undaunted, I settle back into my chair. “Chef Rousseau, you seem awfully firm in your position. You haven’t even heard my offer. Our gala could be your crowning achievement, confirming your status as the pre-eminent chef in Oxfordshire.”
His bobble head shakes from side to side. “Non. The sous-chef phoned me this morning; I am agreeing with her. There can be no cooking happening until the bad air is cleaned out of the room. And this can only happen when we know who has done the deed. If it is one of her jealous underlings, I am safer here in my kitchen with my own people.”
This is not good. Where did that rumour start? If I can’t convince Chef Rousseau, Oxford local, to at least consider, I’ll be facing an uphill battle with anyone else. “The gala isn’t in the dining hall. You could use your own kitchen. Your own staff and suppliers.” The hostess echoes Chef Rousseau’s movements, their heads shaking in concert before I can get all my words out.
The hostess steps around the Chef, circling behind me to tug on my chair, indicating my time is up. She straightens the flatware out, glaring at me, “He cannot do it. Chef Rousseau is not available, he is already booked to prepare dinner at the Palace.”
My eyebrows shoot skyward. “Buckingham?”
“Blenheim Palace, Madame Payne,” clarifies Rousseau. “It is outside Oxford, magnifique and worthy of my time and effort. I was there two nights ago. The family had me stay over and prepare breakfast. Now, I am running late and cannot spare another moment of my time. Au revoir et à bientôt.”
On the cycle back to the college, I hope his cooking is warmer than his heart. I’m not sure he even has one. I’m relieved that he isn’t available. He’d probably come up with another new delicacy themed around the death of our chef - not exactly the type of food that inspires alumni to make donations.
If he hadn’t told me about being away at Blenheim the night of the murder, I’d have nudged the police to look in his direction. Apparently, the only thing he’s guilty of is incredibly poor taste, which is unfortunate for a chef.
Even more unfortunately, all this talk of cooking and food has made my stomach wake up. I burned through my bowl of Crunchy Nut blocks ago. I wonder if Uber Eats exists in Oxford.
❖
Forty-five minutes later, H and I are together again in my office, surrounded by greasy pizza boxes.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the indigestion caused by inhaling six slices of pizza, while digging out my notepad. “We need to come up with a plan.”
Rolling his eyes, H frowns at my suggestion. “Have ya lost yer loaf? We already did that wiff Tildy. This morning? At tha library.” He throws his clawed hands in the air, breaking up the tendril of smoke snaking from his nostrils. “Ya pulled a ruler out of yer handbag and drew lines in yer notebook. We gotta go through all that again? Already?”
I nudge the last slice of pizza in H’s direction. Maybe a full belly will make him more amenable to my afternoon plans. “We’re nowhere near done planning, H. All we covered this morning was the magic issue. We’ve still got a new chef to find, a murder to solve and something else… what was it again? Oh yeah, A WHOLE EVENT TO PLAN.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Honestly, H, you spent the last 35 years shadowing an event planner. How can you already be sick of writing and sorting out tasks?”
H lets out a small burp and accidentally lights one of the empty pizza boxes on fire. I quickly smother it out with some napkins, arching my eyebrow to let him know he still owes me a response. “Tha ole bag, she was more of a wing an’ a prayer type. Not a planner like ya are. All us Eternals would step in and sort things out.”
I stare, sure I must have misheard him. “Well, we won’t be doing any of that, mister. Oh, no. But at least you’ve reminded me that the Ceremonies team is bigger than it seems on paper. How many Eternals are there here at St Margaret?” I ask.
H rubs his chin, tallying up the numbers. “Around 15 more between wispies and portraits, including myself. No other animals ‘ere.”
Fifteen sets of eyes, ears and hands. Plus, my two assistants whom I still need to meet. I abandon my search for my notebook, grabbing a flip chart and writing ‘ACTION PLAN’ in bubble letters across the top. “I’m feeling better already, H.”
❖
“Knock, knock,” Harry calls out as she pushes open the door to my office. “I thought I’d better check on you before I head home for the even… what on earth?”
Whatever else Harry was aiming to say is lost in her reaction to the chaos of my office. Every flat surface in my office is covered with wadded up paper balls, markers, old pizza boxes and
