Shadows of Swanford Abbey by Julie Klassen

Author:Julie Klassen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction;Christian fiction;Mystery fiction;FIC042030;FIC042110;FIC027070
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2021-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

14

The next morning, as arranged, Frederick began interviewing the rest of the staff. The effort required him to rise earlier than usual, but he didn’t mind. He was eager to do his part and discover any useful information—and hopefully before the inquest reconvened, so he could attend the proceedings.

True to his word, Mr. Brixton returned to the abbey early as well. He now stood in the hall awaiting the arrival of the undertaker and would join Frederick later.

Mrs. Somerton sent staff members in, one after another with little pause in between, beginning with the kitchen maids, grooms, and porters. He received little information from any of the young, green lot.

Next came the chef, Monsieur Yves Marhic, a dark-haired man with bushy brows, whose black whisker points showed through his fair skin, although it was clear he had recently shaved.

Frederick regarded with interest the man dressed in white. French chefs were in high demand. He was curious why this one chose to remain at the Swanford Abbey Hotel, of all places. After greeting him, Frederick asked, “I wonder . . . do you like working here, Monsieur?” He added lightly, “In a place rumored to be haunted by nuns?”

The chef shrugged. “This does not trouble me. My own sister is such a one. Sadly, she lives far from here, and I do not see her often.”

Frederick nodded, then launched into his official questions. “Mr. George mentioned that a chambermaid besides Mary Hinton delivered Ambrose Oliver’s breakfast tray two days ago. Mary seems to have no recollection of this. Do you know who that might have been?”

The chef shook his head. “Non. C’est Mary. She delivers to room three le petit-déjeuner most excellent. Oh, and le dîner one night also. Alas, she could not deliver yesterday. Instead she drop the whole tray. Every morsel wasted.” He spread his fingers wide. “All my work. Poof.”

“I know Mary carried up the breakfast tray the morning Mr. Oliver died, but I am asking about the morning before that.”

“Before?” The bushy brows lowered. “Mary, as I say. Tous les jours, Mary.”

“Did you actually see her?”

“Oui. I am very particular la cuisine prepared to each guest’s tastes be delivered to the correct room at the correct time.”

“Would anyone else have seen her?”

Again he shrugged. “Perhaps Jacques, mon assistant. But with his head in the pots, eh, he is not the keen observer I am.”

“And did Mr. Oliver enjoy your cuisine?”

“Bien sûr! Mais, the first morning, he sent back the marmalade. Detests the marmalade. And my coffee. My aromatic French café? Too strong, he says! Never before has my coffee been criticized. Alas, Monsieur Mayhew insists the patron must have his way. So. Alors. I make him the weak English coffee. Beurk!”

“You were angry with him.”

The chef laughed. “You think I kill him for criticizing my coffee? Ho! A crime in France, perhaps. But not here, where an Englishman would not know a good cup of coffee if he bathed in it! Héhéhé . . .” The chef held his rounded stomach and laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.

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