Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

‘Meringue,’ said Veronica blankly. Then, ‘Oh, meringue . Yes, he can have the recipe with pleasure. Will tomorrow do? I can drop it into the library. Because at the moment the bedroom’s like a battlefield and—’

‘Tomorrow will be plenty of time,’ said Ella. ‘I’ve got to go out to his house first thing because I promised to lend him my crystal dessert set – the one—’

‘—that Derek bought when you were in Portugal,’ said Veronica. ‘I know. Can you call for the recipe on your way to his house?’

This was exactly what Ella wanted. She said, ‘Is nine o’clock too early?’ and braced herself for another of Veronica’s suggestive remarks, but Veronica said, in a perfectly ordinary voice, that nine o’clock would be quite all right.

Ella replaced the phone and sat very still, reviewing all the details of the plan. It had been right not to hide the fact that she had called at Clem’s house tonight. She might easily have been seen by one of his neighbours – she had been seen by a couple of her own. And Clem might even have made a phone call to someone – anyone – after Ella left, although that was not very likely. He was a bit of a Scrooge at times, old Clem; he made as many phone calls as he could from the library rather than his own phone.

And there were the sherry glasses. Clem might not have washed them up; he might just have put them in the sink for later. Ella’s fingerprints would certainly be on them, along with DNA from her lipstick. But she thought her story about a recipe was completely credible and she would have Veronica’s backup over that.

The only person who could contradict the story was Clem himself, of course. But by about half-past nine tonight Clem would not be able to contradict any story at all.

It was nine o’clock when Clem finally ladled out the fish in its rich sauce. It looked very good indeed, the consistency just right, the smell appetizing. Another of his triumphs. He sighed happily, fished out the other two bay leaves, dropped them into the bin, then buttered a wedge of crusty bread. He set the plate on the kitchen table; he would eat here, and this time he would listen properly to The Deserted Village .

The first mouthful of the fish was excellent, creamy and sharp, and the cadences of the music rose and fell as he ate. It was evocative music. The village and its people were pretty much doomed, that was the burden of the song. As he listened, he could almost imagine himself back in that long-ago morning when they had walked through the deserted village street, hearing the church clock chime, listening for the plane bringing the Geranos. It was odd how it had become known that Geranos was harmful; Clem had never actually heard of anyone being damaged by it. Still, governments and councils had been cagey in those days, and they had been able to be cagey. Not like now, when so much information had to be available to everybody.

He forked up a second mouthful of the fish. On further tasting it was actually a bit salty. Or was it? Clem’s recent head cold had blunted his sense of smell and also his sense of taste. He frowned, trying to decide. It was salty. In fact it tasted almost bitter. Had he put in too much seasoning after all? Clem got up to pour a glass of the chilled wine from the fridge and sipped it, hoping to sharpen his palate. No, it made no difference. He would be very annoyed if, after all his care, his beautiful dish had not worked and something else had to be quickly fudged up for Friday. He carried on eating, trying to think what he could cook in its place. He could not serve this to his guests, that was for sure. The bitterness was becoming more strongly pronounced, in fact it was almost acrid. His whole mouth was starting to feel hot and his throat was prickling.

He got up to get a glass of water and the entire room tilted and spun all around him. Clem gasped, and clung to the edge of the sink. Something was wrong with the food – something was very wrong indeed. Sickness welled up and he retched violently, leaning over the sink, spluttering and shuddering helplessly. Dreadful. He managed to run the tap to wash the disgusting mess away and felt slightly better. A bad bit of fish, most likely. In that case, it was just as well he had been sick and got rid of it. In a minute he would tip the whole panful of food down the outside drain and flush it away with disinfectant and bleach. He would most likely throw the casserole dish away as well. He never wanted to eat fish again in his life.

He tottered back to the kitchen table but a dreadful cramplike pain twisted his stomach before he got there. He doubled over, sweat pouring from him, and as he did so felt the inside of his throat tightening and swelling. Dear God, this was more than a bit of food poisoning – he was really ill. He would have to get to the phone to summon help – a doctor – ambulance…

He was sick again, shamefully and messily, the wetness spattering all over the floor. Clem shuddered, but the pain tore through his guts again and he was beyond caring about the mess. If he could just get to the phone—

But he could no longer stand up and the phone on its cradle by the hall door seemed a thousand miles away. He felt dreadfully dizzy, but he managed to crawl a couple of feet towards the phone. Almost there, almost…

The pain slammed into him again and he curled over it, clutching his stomach and moaning. His throat and mouth seemed to fill up with thick suffocating flannel and he clawed at the air, gasping. The kitchen shivered and blurred, and there was a dull roaring in his ears. As he fell to the floor, the music wound its way to its eerie conclusion and faded into silence. But Clem could no longer hear it.

Ella was friendly and ordinary when Derek came home, with Amy shortly after him. She listened to all they had to say and, when asked about her own evening, said she had gone round to Clem Poulter’s house. He had wanted her help with a recipe, would you credit it? All that boasting he did about planning his menus and here he was, two days before a dinner party, rushing round like a demented hen to find a pudding.

‘Make him one of your apple pies, why don’t you?’ said Derek, who had switched on the television news and was only half listening to what Ella was saying. Ella did not bother to say apple pie was hardly the kind of thing Clem would want to serve. She did not, of course, say that there would not be any party anyway. She merely said she had promised to collect a recipe from Veronica and take it round in the morning.

‘I’ll do that if you like,’ said Amy, who was curled up on the hearthrug, drinking a mug of the tea Ella had made for them all. ‘Then I can take it into the library when I go in after lunch and save you the bother, Gran.’

Ella had a sensation like skidding uncontrollably over a patch of ice in a car. They said there was always one small item you overlooked. Was this it? Then she heard her voice saying, ‘I think he wants the recipe first thing, Amy. He’s going to collect the ingredients on his way in to the library. And I said I’d lend him my crystal dessert set as well, so I’ll need to pack that up and drive round with it.’

‘Oh, OK.’

The moment passed and Ella felt safe again. Derek had started his usual running commentary about the news: the state of the country and what the government ought to be doing, and he and Amy entered into a lively argument about some policy the Home Secretary had just announced.

Ella relaxed, but she was shaken. It just went to show you could not plan for absolutely everything. To reassure herself, she went back over what she had done that day. It had been so easy to pluck several leaves from her own garden that afternoon – not bay, which gave such a good flavour to cooking and which Clem swore by, but leaves from another bush entirely…