Eat, Drink and Be Buried by Peter King

almost thin, and had an aristocratic face with a mouth that looked as if it were about to sneer. After a few minutes of conversation, I realized that I was not necessarily the target of such an expression—it was natural.
    â€œYou got out of the maze all right, I see,” she said with just a tinge of amusement.
    â€œNo problem,” I said, airily if untruthfully. I looked at Angela. “I’m surprised at you, though, Angela. Hope you don’t send paying customers in there. You might not see them again.”
    Her face was all innocence. “I didn’t say a word. It was Norman who directed you that way. He considers it a short cut.”
    â€œWhen you know it, maybe it is.” I turned to Neville. “Are you active in the castle operations?”
    â€œGood Lord, no!” He was emphatic.
    â€œNeville’s a trader, in foreign currencies.”
    â€œAre you with one of the banks in the City?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I’m an independent.” He had a slightly languid air that fitted his answer. I supposed it was one of the curses of the nobility.
    â€œHe makes lots of money, don’t you, Neville?”
    I was not sure whether Angela was praising him or being caustic at his expense. His reply did not support either view. “Like all traders, my dear, I do, at times…then one experiences those other times.”
    â€œI hear the deutsche mark is on the rise,” I said.
    â€œFor a while,” he said dismissively. “Until the chairman of their central banking system makes his speech next month at least.”
    I had no idea what the deutsche mark was doing, but I wanted to see if he really was in currency or if it was just a pose. A murder on the premises makes me suspicious of almost everybody. I would have to call a knowledgeable friend and check on that answer.
    We chatted about the castle and the ramifications of its myriad activities before Neville became noticeably impatient to leave. Angela darted him a swift glance, evidently recognizing the symptoms.
    â€œWe’ll be off then,” she said brightly. “Next time you feel like a prowl around the maze, let me know. There’s a secret corner of it, called the Bower. It used to be a trysting place in the old days.”
    â€œBut no longer? You mean people don’t tryst any more?”
    She gave me a provocative pout. “I’ll take you there soon. We can find out.”
    Before they were out of sight, Neville’s arm was around her and they were kissing. Maybe it was for my benefit or maybe cousins were closer in the country. I wondered if I had a knowledgeable friend who could answer that one, too.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    â€œL EAVE LIAISON WITH INSPECTOR Devlin to me” had been Hemingway’s parting words. I knew him well enough to know that meant I did not have to tell Devlin that I was reporting to Hemingway. It was not that Hemingway was a devious man—well, that’s not true, he could be extremely devious—but it was not a matter of keeping Devlin in the dark so that the Food Squad could grab the glory. The specialized involvement of the Food Squad meant that any information I unearthed could be better interpreted by them rather than the local police. “A little rationalization does wonders to clear the mind” was a suitable dictum, I reminded myself.
    My intended visit to the supplies office had slipped in priority since I had been conscripted by the Food Squad. I still needed to talk to Donna Rowlands, but a morning spent in getting better acquainted with the castle and its occupants was surely more immediately useful.
    The grounds were festooned with banners and flags proclaiming today as being a “Children’s Festival,” and figures in brilliantly colored costumes were already flitting all over the lawns, which still glistened with the remains of a morning dew. I saw Don McCartney in his role as Entertainments Director giving