A Taste of Death: The gripping new murder mystery that will keep you guessing
The first murder happened while I was making meringues…When Ben Hunter moves to become head chef at the Old Forge Café in the quiet village of Hampden Green, a tricky recipe for egg-based desserts isn’t the only thing he gets embroiled in. As he struggles with a whisk in his first week, he gets an unexpected visit from DI Slattery – there’s been a murder and he’s a suspect. Ben resolves to get to the bottom of the mystery, and he soon discovers that this sleepy Chilterns village is covering up a whole lot more than an appetite for sweet treats…
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A Taste of Death
The Old Forge Café
H. V. COOMBS
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © H.V. Coombs 2017
Cover illustration © Head Design
H.V. Coombs asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008235796
Version 2017-11-14
To J.A.W. xx H.V.C
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Thursday, 7 January
Chapter Three: Friday, 8 January
Chapter Four: Friday, 8 January, early afternoon
Chapter Six: Monday, 11 January, lunch
Chapter Seven: Monday, 11 January, evening
Chapter Eight: Tuesday, 12 January
Chapter Nine: Wednesday, 13 January
Chapter Ten: Thursday, 14 January
Chapter Eleven: Friday, 15 January, 9.30 a.m.
Chapter Twelve: Friday, 15 January, 6 a.m.
Chapter Thirteen: Monday, 18 January
Chapter Fourteen: Tuesday, 19 January
Chapter Fifteen: Wednesday, 20 January, early evening
Chapter Sixteen: Thursday, 21 January, afternoon
Chapter Seventeen: Thursday, 21 January, late afternoon
Chapter Eighteen: Friday, 22 January
Chapter Nineteen: Friday, 22 January, lunchtime
Chapter Twenty: Friday, 22 January, afternoon
Chapter Twenty-One: Friday, 22 January, late afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Two: Saturday, 23 January, midday
Chapter Twenty-Three: Saturday, 23 January afternoon
Chapter Twenty-Four: Saturday, 23 January, night
Chapter Twenty-Six: Monday, 25 January
Chapter Thirty-Three: Tuesday, 26 January
Chapter Thirty-Four: Wednesday, 27 January, early morning
Chapter Thirty-Six: Wednesday, 27 January, mid-morning
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Wednesday, 27 January, noon
I heard about the first murder while I was making meringues.
Meringues, so simple, yet so fiddly. They are like a metaphor for leading a good life. On the face of it so easy, yet the potential for disaster is huge. So, there I was in the kitchen, the gigantic Hobart mixer was running, fitted with a balloon whisk attachment. I had separated five egg whites and put them in the large stainless steel mixing bowl with a hundred and sixty grams of icing sugar. Sugar gives a meringue both body and weight. Body and weight. Always crucial, for both people and solidified foam dishes.
There was a pounding on the kitchen door. As insistent as the noise of the mixer, but not as comforting. It wasn’t a polite announcement of someone’s presence, it was an angry statement of intent. I slowed the mixer down, and it quietened itself from a deafening rattle to a comforting whir, then I went to open the door. I think I knew who it was before I even touched the handle.
‘Do come in, DI Slattery,’ I said politely.
The inspector entered with his usual air of haughty disdain. In the short time, only about a week, that I had known him, I had learned that the DI had what is charitably known as a forceful personality. It was typical Slattery that, instead of politely ringing or knocking on the front door, he had let himself into the kitchen yard and used the kitchen one, off limits to the general public. But that’s Slattery for you, given to making statements as well as taking them down. His cold, angry eyes were aggressively trying to find any excuse to arrest me, or at least that’s the impression he gave. I could be wrong. It was certainly the look that he usually wore. Maybe deep down Slattery warmly empathised with me. Somehow I doubted it.
‘Busy, Ben?’ his tone sarcastic.
I shrugged. ‘As you see.’ I turned up the machine, watching the white mixture whirl around until stiff peaks formed. If you overbeat meringues they can weep syrup, creating an unpleasant, sticky soggy mess. In short, a disaster.
