On that note, I jot a few instructions onto my notepad and turn in for the night. H may have begged off, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.
Chapter Thirteen
Warm rays of sunshine light up the interior of Harry’s car. I get settled inside after finding the correct college carpark. With spaces dotted around the entire perimeter, it was no easy feat. I buckle myself in and double-check my task list. “Get car, check. Next up, buy wellies.”
After a drunk H planted the seed in my mind, I woke up at 4am and added a new pair of wellington boots to my must have list. He already ruined one set of shoes last night, and I can’t afford to sacrifice another pair so soon. After setting the address in the sat nav, I turn up the radio and sing my way out of the college grounds.
As I wait for my turn to cross the roundabout, I mull over the background information Harry gave me on the veg vendor. The Johnstons, a husband and wife team, own a small farm in the surrounding countryside. According to Harry, they were reliable vendors, always turning up on schedule with the order at the ready. Neither she nor Dr Radcliffe was clear on what set off Chef Smythe in the first place, both having their doubts that the Johnstons might have been at fault. That was why Dr Radcliffe had called the chef into her office. She hoped to resolve the argument before it got any more explosive. Finding Chef Smythe’s body had put an end to it instead.
As far as Harry knows, I’m on my way out to see if the Johnstons might return to the college. I didn’t mention my plans to check for their alibis while doing so. This time around I’m taking a much subtler approach. I don’t need to confront anyone; I can leave that to Edward and the police.
I spy one of the large chain supermarkets on the edge of town, stopping to raid their limited clothing section. Deep in the dark depths of the clearance rack, I spot a pair of Cotswold dog printed wellies in my size. Wellington boots are the one item of clothing where English women are encouraged to go wild, the bolder and brighter the print, the better. I always saw it as a personal challenge to see how crazy I could find them.
I circle through the aisles, restocking my kitchen before turning towards the checkout. One swipe of my bank card later and I’m the proud owner of a lush pair of wellies… so cute that I don’t want to get them dirty. Hmm, maybe I should have thought this through. At least this pair of shoes is washable.
Back in the car, I follow the road through endless roundabouts before I see a sign for the farm in question. Bumping down a muddy track road, I say a silent prayer that I don’t cross anyone coming from the opposite direction. I’ll take London traffic over narrow back roads any day.
Three blind curves and one tractor trailer later, I finally turn into the drive. I park next to a shed, slip on my wellies and climb out. No one comes out to investigate my arrival, and with multiple sheds and barns spread across the property, I don’t have a clue where to look.
“Might as well start with the closest one,” I murmur to myself. Right as I give the door handle a gentle tug, a woman comes careening around the corner.
“Aha! I finally caught one of you. I’ve had enough of you kids sneaking in and stealing our tools. Whatever you’ve taken, you can set right back down again.”
I turn around slowly. The woman in question is armed with a shovel and seems ready to use it, her blonde hair slipping free of a loose ponytail, her cheeks bright with anger. She appears to be in her mid-forties, stoutly built with enough muscle to hold up a shovel at length without her arms shaking like mine would. Her rugged trousers and mud-crusted wellies stand in stark contrast to my tight jeans and shiny new wellies. I raise my hands in the air so she can see the only tool I’m carrying is a moleskin notebook.
I pack as much soothing tone into my voice as possible. “I don’t know what farm thieves typically look like, but I doubt they wear dog print wellies. I’m Nat, Natalie Payne, that is. From St Margaret College. I didn’t mean to snoop around, but I couldn’t see anyone.”
She doesn’t lower the shovel. Tough crowd.
“I’m not sure that St Margaret differs greatly from a group of thieves. Nearly ruined our business. Haven’t you lot done enough already?” She raises the shovel up and I fear for my head. I thought Harry was exaggerating when she suggested the veg vendor might be a murderer. Now I’m worried I’m the next victim.
Trying to calm her down, I slowly work my way back towards the car in case I need to make a quick getaway. “I’m new at St Margaret, I heard from Harry about what Chef Smythe did and I wanted to come out and make my apologies on behalf of the college.”
“New, you said?”
I nod my head in reassurance. “Brand new, so new that I discovered the chef’s body on my first morning at work.”
“Ah, you’re that Natalie. Sorry about that.” She finally lowers the shovel down and leans it against the wall of the nearby barn. “It feels like we’ve had nothing but grief coming out of there lately, I didn’t have the energy to deal with anything else.”
Relaxing my shoulders, I hold out my hand to her in a fresh attempt at an introduction. “Please call me Nat. I’m the new Head of Ceremonies for the University, temporarily at St Margaret as their gala is my first event.”
She shakes my hand and returns
