“I met Beatrice at lunch today and she said much of the same. She mentioned that Chef Smythe refused to give you a recommendation. How could she do that and get away with it?”
Tossing a pile of papers onto her desk, Claudia twists, her cheeks red with anger. “She did it because she was a complete beast of a person. She couldn’t care less about our hopes and dreams, only her own. She treated our suppliers even worse. Chef Rousseau at Oxford Maison knew the truth, but what could he do? He offered me space in his kitchen several times, but I’d had enough of working underneath someone. He was happy to take me on as help, but didn’t have any interest in supporting me where I might end up as competition. That’s the way these chef personality cults work.”
I don’t have to fake the shudder. That sounds awful. “You must have confronted Chef Smythe about it?”
“Plenty of times. Not that it did any good. Nothing would make a difference.” She pauses, taking in a deep breath before carrying on. “It was time for me to take matters into my own hands.”
Take matters into her own hands? I realise in a flash that this woman could very well be a person who can bury a cleaver in someone’s back. The thought of it shakes me. Quietly, I slide around the metal island until I’m standing on the far side of it.
Claudia fails to notice my movements. She picks up a dagger-like metal letter opener, slicing through envelopes. Lost in thought, she looks to be reliving some past event, talking more to herself than to me. “It was my only way out. It was a risk, but I had to take it.”
Is she talking about what I think she’s talking about? My eyes dart around the room, searching for something I can use for self-defence. I spot a cast iron frying pan resting on a nearby countertop and breathe a sigh of relief when my fingers wrap around its handle. Unfortunately, it’s heavier than it looks. The metallic bottom scrapes across the counter, drawing Claudia’s attention.
Turning around, Claudia looks at me and bursts out laughing. Not exactly the reaction I expected, but it’s better than her coming at me with that letter opener… or a meat cleaver. Claudia wipes her eyes with a dishtowel while I debate whether it’s safe to set the skillet back down.
“If I needed any signs I’m making the right move by getting out of here, having the new hire look at me like I’m a murderer is a good one.”
I abandon the skillet, flinching as it hits the counter with a clatter. “If murder wasn’t your way out, what are you talking about?”
“I’m going on MasterChef!”
I tuck my proverbial tail between my legs and leave, the echo of Claudia’s laughter trailing behind me. Hopefully, her notice will run out before she recounts this story to anyone else.
Chapter Eight
H catches up with me as I push my way through the swinging doors to exit the dining hall. “Ow’d ya do in there?”
I pick up my pace. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Flapping, H matches my speed, undeterred by my efforts to end the conversation. “Did she fess up?”
I can still hear Claudia’s laughter in my head. There’s no way I’m telling H what happened. “I said, I don’t want to talk about it. Move on.”
With a few strong flaps of his wings, H circles around to stare me in the face, blocking me from going any further. He reaches out a talon, holding my face in place as he checks my wellbeing. “Yep, it's yer blood sugar. Best iffen we go to tha Senior Common Room and get a chockie biscuit.”
For once, H has a good idea. I could use a whole plate of chockie biscuits after my first few days here. All I ever wanted out of life was to plan absolutely amazing and memorable events. Little did I know that some magical force would pull me right out of London. And why? It wanted to deliver me here in the midst of a murder mystery that will ruin my event if I can’t solve it.
Thankfully H knows the way as the door isn’t labelled. I twist the handle and open the door to find a spacious sunny room on the other side of it. Its pale blue walls and comfortable seating smooth my battered ego. The coffee and end tables provide a home for an array of magazines and newspapers, the disorder making it clear that they are there to be enjoyed and not just for decoration. I wander inside, pausing to enjoy the art hung on the walls. This is the first room in the main hall that’s felt like home instead of an office.
I finally come across a state-of-the-art coffee machine and a plate of chocolate biscuits, tucked away beside an overflowing bookshelf. I bend over, stopping to read the titles on the book spines, but H is having none of it. “I know yer cream-crackered, but we gotta shake a leg. Grab yerself a bisckey and a cuppa so we can get outta ‘ere.”
“Out of here? This room is wonderful. What’s gotten into you? Our next meeting isn’t for another hour. I wouldn’t mind finding a good book to read, and there are more than a few here that look interesting.”
“Ermm, well, ummm…” H trails off guiltily.
I slide a paperback off the shelf, quickly followed by two chocolate digestive biscuits. I set a St Margaret mug under the coffee machine, pressing
