The Sin Eater by Sarah Rayne Page B

apparent composure. But there was still a faintly scared look around her own eyes and, seeing this, Michael was glad he had suggested cooking supper. He had laid the small drop-leaf table and had opened a bottle of sharp white wine which they were sharing. The meal would be ready in about half an hour; he thought it was as foolproof as it could be. He had bought salmon steaks, which he had wrapped in foil with a sliver of butter and lemon juice, and had bought salad ingredients to go with them. This surely could not go wrong, although it was remarkable how often cooking did. If things did not burn they came out nearly raw, or something fused or blew up within the cooker itself.
    Michael had once tried to make vichyssoise and had put a number of ingredients in a blender, which had exploded halfway through the process, showering half-mushed potatoes and leeks everywhere. Unfortunately, Wilberforce had been sitting on the window sill at the time and had received most of the contents. He had been so disgusted he had vanished for two days, but, as Nell’s Beth had said afterwards, this would be a really cool thing to include in the new book about Wilberforce, didn’t Michael think so? So Michael had dutifully written a chapter in which Wilberforce, wearing a chef’s hat slightly too big for him, attended a series of cookery lessons, until the mice, with whom Wilberforce waged ongoing and unsuccessful battles, gleefully tipped the pepper pot into the stew.
    At the moment, the real Wilberforce was in the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the cooker, where the salmon was cooking according to schedule. The bowl of salad was in the fridge, and Michael could give his attention to Nell’s odd experience in Benedict Doyle’s house.
    â€˜Will you go back to the house to draw up the inventory?’ he asked. He liked seeing Nell here; he liked the way she always kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her in the deep armchair by the fireplace. She still had on the jacket she had worn for London – it was golden brown and it brought out the copper lights in her hair.
    â€˜Yes, I think I’ll have to. Apart from anything else, there’s this,’ said Nell, producing the chess piece.
    â€˜That looks valuable.’ Michael did not say he didn’t much like the slightly sneering face on the carved figure. He set it down on a low table and considered it.
    â€˜It does, doesn’t it? I’ll have to get it looked at properly, though. I found it after Benedict was taken to the hospital. It’s the reason I went up to the second floor – to see if I could find the rest of the set. I didn’t, though.’
    â€˜No, and from the sound of it, it’s probably as well, in fact— Oh bother, that’s someone at the door.’
    It was Michael’s friend Owen Bracegirdle from the History faculty.
    â€˜Sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest – oh, it’s Nell. Hello, Nell, how nice you look. I won’t intrude, I see you’re about to eat, I’ll just say hello and vanish into the night like a . . . Well, if you insist, I’ll have a quick glass of wine, thank you very much.’
    Owen had come to find out if Michael was going to the Dean’s Christmas lunch tomorrow, and who Michael was supporting for the election of Professor of Poetry.
    â€˜I am going to the Dean’s lunch, and Nell’s coming as well this year,’ said Michael, who was looking forward to walking into the Dean’s long dining room with Nell. ‘But I’m not supporting anyone for the poetry professorship; in fact I don’t even know who the nominees are.’
    Owen knew, of course, and he knew all the details of each candidate. He loved college gossip and entered into it as enthusiastically as a Tudor courtier swapping backstairs intrigue. But tonight, probably in deference to Nell’s presence, he forbore to launch into one of his mildly scandalous