Death and Fromage: the most hilarious murder mystery since Richard Osman's The Thursday Murder Club (A Follet Valley Mystery) by Ian Moore

Author:Ian Moore [Moore, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788423830
Publisher: Duckworth Books
Published: 2022-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Clare smoothed the picnic rug on the riverbank with a care and attention to detail that suggested this was going to be no informal, light lunch. The riverbank sloped gently down to the water’s edge in a secluded spot where dragonflies hovered majestically and the river drifted by silently. On the opposite bank stood a heron, biding his time for any passing fish, and further upstream stood a wooden cabin, the office of the local river pedalo hire, which was shut for lunch. The large, wicker picnic hamper was set between them as they sat and took in the serenity of the scene.

‘It’s at moments like this I remember why we moved here,’ Clare said wistfully. ‘It really is so peaceful.’

Although he could see exactly what she meant and that her thoughts were backed up by the vista in front of them, Richard was also currently struggling with a double murder and historical infidelity. It’s the kind of thing that puts dragonflies, majestic or otherwise, into perspective, so he stayed silent.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, undoing the leather straps on the basket. ‘I’ve brought some of your favourites.’

‘How did you get this hamper on your flight? Didn’t they kick up a fuss?’

‘It was here, silly. Have you not used it since I left?’

Richard shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had much call to.’

‘Do you remember the last time we used it?’ It was the kind of question that sends a shockwave through any male. Any enquiry regarding relationship dates or specific memories should be tabled well in advance, in his opinion, and not just sprung on you out of the blue. He thought about it and decided to be brave.

‘No, not really.’

She nodded as if in confirmation of her thoughts and then said quietly, ‘No. Me neither.’

‘It would probably be doing something like this, I suppose.’ He was trying to cheer them both up. ‘Probably before we even moved here.’

She opened the basket. ‘Yes, that would make sense. That’s the problem with moving somewhere you enjoy as a holiday. It stops being a holiday.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘It did for us, Richard. Scotch egg?’

He wanted to argue the point that although Clare had never got used to the slow pace of the Follet Valley, it suited him very much indeed. But he also really wanted a Scotch egg, so decided not to argue the point at all.

‘Did you smuggle them into France?’ he asked, his tone very much like that of a gold prospector who spies a potential seam.

‘I did!’ She laughed. ‘And not only Scotch eggs, either.’ She unpacked the basket, proudly reeling off the very British picnic goods that Richard hadn’t had for years, and up until that point didn’t know he’d missed. ‘We have the aforementioned Scotch eggs; Melton Mowbray pork pies; I’ve made my own coronation chicken; there is potato salad; Red Leicester cheese; Jacob’s cream crackers; Marks & Spencer’s cloudy lemonade; I have those dreadful mango chutney poppadoms that you love. And…’ She paused for effect.

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