by Joyce Cato
Her husband nodded glumly. As ever, his darling wife was right. ‘She might have stayed on and cooked my puddings, at least,’ he mumbled, unwilling to let it rest.
‘With what, dearest?’ Vee snorted. ‘I’ve looked up what “vegan” means. It means not only is meat off limits, but anything else that comes from a bird or animal. So poor Miss Starling wouldn’t be able to use eggs, so there goes any kind of sponge pudding. She mustn’t use milk, so bang go our tapioca and rice puddings. Unless it was fruit, fruit, fruit, it would never get past that creature Richard hired.’
George went pale. ‘I’ve been thinking, old girl. That new chef of ours. Do you think we might, well, bump him orf?’
‘Bump him orf?’ she repeated, giving her husband a fond look. ‘Well we might, George. And with Miss Starling gone, we’d probably get away with it too. But’ – she patted his hand fondly – ‘I don’t think it’s quite on, do you? After all, the chap’s a foreigner. You can’t go about potting foreigners. They do take on so.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose so. So what do we do?’
Vee smiled. ‘We wait, George. Richard is the next Lord Avonsleigh, and his wife the Lady, so we must be careful not to alienate them. For the moment, the American bombshell – that’s what the staff are calling her behind her back, you know – is having it all her own way, because Richard is still so young and head-over-heels in love with her. But the honeymoon stage doesn’t last long, and the rose-tinted glasses will come off, sooner or later, you mark my words. And don’t forget, George dear, Richard is our son. He’ll soon start to crave a nice bit of rump steak. He’ll start dreaming of roast lamb and mint sauce. And then….’
‘Then we’ll get Miss Starling back,’ his lordship said firmly.
‘Exactly. I’ll word an advertisement that only Miss Starling will recognize and understand, and put it in The Times. You’ll see. Despite having to always cook one vegetarian dish for the bomb … er, Beatrice, she’ll come back to us.’
His lordship sighed. He wondered if the colonel had a cook that knew how to make real spotted dick with custard. He’d have to get himself invited over….
‘Oh, look, there she is,’ she said, craning her neck. Below them, solitary rucksack in hand, Jenny walked briskly across the lawn. Her bright cherry-red van was currently in the village, lodged in the local mechanic’s front garden, getting itself a good overhaul.
‘She’s headed for the short cut to the village,’ his lordship muttered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I do hope she hasn’t felt too put out about all this,’ he added worryingly.
Vee watched the cook put down her rucksack and suddenly veer off to the left, heading unerringly towards Seth’s carefully fenced off vegetable plot.
She blinked. ‘I rather think, George, that she has felt a little bit bitter,’ she said mildly, her tone wavering on the verge of laughter. ‘Look who she’s just picked up.’
His lordship, a trifle far-sighted, leaned forward and peered. ‘Well, it looks like – good gad, it is. She’s got Henry! Vee, our cook’s kidnapping our tortoise!’ he yelled, aghast.
Vee bit her lip, laughter gurgling at the back of her throat. ‘I don’t think that’s what she has in mind dear. Watch.’
He watched.
As she neared the carefully protected rows of beans, carrots, cabbages, lettuces, beetroot and radishes, the large, shapely cook stopped and looked around furtively. Then she quickly hoisted the tortoise over the chicken-wire fence and set him down firmly in the nearest row of lettuces.
By the Same Author
Birthdays Can Be Murder
A Fatal Fall of Snow
Dying for a Cruise
Copyright
© Joyce Cato 2012
First published in Great Britain 2012
This edition 2013
ISBN 978 0 7198 0967 5 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0968 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0969 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0592 9 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Joyce Cato to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988