Part 22 (1/2)

Two of the evening's customers were Ms Harding, the news editor from the Cambridge Evening News Cambridge Evening News, together with, I presumed, Mr Harding, the paper's overall editor. I hadn't seen them arrive and I didn't even realize they were in the dining room until Richard came to see me about their bill.

'She says you invited them to come for free,' he said, somewhat accusingly. Richard was never one to allow anyone to get away with something for nothing. That was one of the reasons I employed him.

'That's right,' I said, taking their bill from the plate he was carrying. I looked at it. They had ordered a bottle of wine but it was one of the cheaper ones on our list and I decided to allow that too. Richard wouldn't have approved.

I went over to the Hardings' table with a bottle of port and three gla.s.ses.

'Do you fancy a nightcap?' I asked.

'h.e.l.lo,' said Ms Harding warmly. 'This is my husband, Alistair. Max Moreton.' I saw him read the embroidered name on my tunic.

Alistair stood up and we shook hands.

'Thank you for the dinner,' he said. 'We've really enjoyed the evening.'

'Good,' I said. 'Can I join you for a port?' I held up the bottle.

In the end only Ms Harding had one with me since her husband was driving.

'I can't go on thinking of you as Ms Harding,' I said to her. 'But I don't know your first name.'

'Clare,' she said.

'Well, Clare,' I said, 'I hope you don't suffer any ill effects after eating here.'

She looked rather startled and then smiled broadly as she realized I was only joking. At least, I hoped I was only joking.

'I am sure I will be fine,' she said. 'I had the snapper with the pear and it was absolutely delicious.' Gary would be pleased.

'And I had the medallions of pork,' said Alistair. 'They were wonderful.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'I am so glad you enjoyed it.'

We chatted for a while longer and then they departed, promising to be back again, and next time at their expense. And they hadn't mentioned anything about the intended prosecution. Perhaps things were indeed getting back to normal.

My mobile phone rang in my pocket.

'h.e.l.lo,' I said.

'h.e.l.lo, my darling,' said Caroline excitedly. 'I've arrived and it's beautiful. I have a lovely room overlooking the river. I wish you were here.'

I wished it too. 'Did you have a good flight?' I asked.

'Lovely,' she said. 'I slept for about three hours so I'm doing pretty well.'

'Well done,' I said. 'It's eleven thirty here and I'm going home to bed.'

'Where are you?' she asked.

'At the restaurant,' I said. 'I've been helping with the dinner service.'

'You're a naughty boy,' she said. 'You should be resting.'

'What, like yesterday?' I said, laughing.

'I've got to go,' she said. 'I'm meeting everyone else downstairs in five minutes. We're going out on a boat. I'm going to be exhausted.' She sounded excited.

'Have a great time,' I said. We hung up and I positively ached to be there with her.

I yawned. I was exhausted too, both emotionally and physically.

I changed and then Carl gave me a lift home and it was not until after he had driven away that I realized I had left my overnight bag in the office at the restaurant.

'Oh well,' I said to myself. 'I'll have to go to bed without brus.h.i.+ng my teeth.'

And I did.

I dreamt that I could smell toast. But someone had left it in my broken toaster for too long and it was beginning to burn. Burnt toast. My father had always rather liked his toast burned black. He had joked that it wasn't burnt, it was just well done.

I was awake and I could still smell the burnt toast.

I got up and opened my bedroom door.

My cottage was on fire, with giant flames roaring up the stairway and great billowing black smoke filling the air.

CHAPTER 14.

Oh s.h.i.+t, I thought. How am I going to get out of this? I closed my bedroom door. Perhaps it was all a dream. But I knew it wasn't. I could smell the smoke coming through the cracks around the door and I could feel the heat, even on the other side of the wood. It wouldn't be long before the fire had eaten its way through.

I went to the window.

My cottage had been built more than two hundred years before and the windows were the original leaded lights, small panes of gla.s.s held in place by a lattice of lead strips. The windows were themselves small with only a tiny hinged opening for ventilation that definitely wasn't large enough for me to get through.

I opened the ventilator and shouted at the top of my voice.

'Fire! Fire! Help! Help! Somebody help me!'

I couldn't hear if there was a response. The noise of the fire below my feet was becoming louder with every second.

I shouted again. 'Fire! Fire! Help! Help!'

There were no sirens, no hoses, no yellow-helmeted men on ladders.

The air in my bedroom was getting thicker with smoke and it made me cough. I stood up near the ventilator to get some fresh air from outside but, even here, smoke billowed up from the window below. And it was getting very hot.

I knew that people who died in fires usually did so from smoke inhalation rather than from the flames themselves. I wasn't sure whether this was comforting or not. I didn't want to die, and I especially didn't want to die like this, trapped in my burning house. Instead I got angry, b.l.o.o.d.y mad in fact, and my anger gave me strength.