by Faith Martin
‘Ah, but that was before,’ Gabriel said, and he reached into his voluminous pocket to withdraw a rather chunky set of papers.
‘Before what?’ Lucas asked cautiously, his cockney twang becoming more pronounced as he began to feel decidedly uneasy.
‘Before I got a friend of mine from the MOD to copy me these,’ Gabriel said, and handed them over.
*
In the games room, Dorothy jumped the last of her husband’s pieces. ‘There. I knew you weren’t paying attention,’ she teased. ‘You can usually beat me hands down.’
She’d showered and washed her hair after her swim, and now her long locks fell around her shoulders like a gossamer cloud. She was wearing a periwinkle-blue summer frock, and David, for a moment pushing his troubles to one side, looked at her with appreciative eyes.
But before he could reply, they both nearly jumped out of their skins.
Out on the deck, Lucas Finch roared something so loudly and so furiously that he was all but incoherent. In the summer heat, every door, window and porthole on the Swan had been left open, allowing the outraged bellow to be heard in every room.
In the galley, Jenny dropped an onion, nearly cutting her finger into the bargain, and cursed rather roundly. She’d learned a rather interesting vocabulary of swear words from an admiral she’d once worked for. What curse or scandalous epithet that man hadn’t known hadn’t been worth hearing. He could even have taught Lucas’s parrot a thing or two.
She stooped down and picked up the fallen vegetable, put it in the sink to wash, and then wandered to the door of the galley. Outside, the main salon was empty, but the door to the games room stood open.
She could clearly see Dorothy and David Leigh, their mouths hanging comically open, staring out onto the port deck.
There, Jenny saw, Lucas Finch had Gabriel Olney by the throat. Literally.
The cook firmed her lips grimly. She wanted none of that on this trip. She marched briskly across the games room, bypassing the Leighs, who seemed rooted to the spot in shock, and quickstepped to the French windows.
By now, Gabriel Olney was turning rather purple. Rather like the shade of a good Victoria plum, Jenny thought irreverently.
She pulled open the door, just as Lucas Finch snarled. ‘Where did you get it, Olney?’ the cockney asked, all but shaking the older man like a terrier might shake a rat.
Even his own parrot thought this was a bit too much, for he was pacing agitatedly up and down the rail, saying, ‘Who rattled your cage then? Aye, aye?’ over and over again, at a rather hysterical pitch.
‘Mr Finch, put that man down at once!’ Jenny barked, her voice cutting across the air like a schoolmistress’s voice cutting across a classroom of naughty children. It made Lucas drop his man in shock.
Gabriel began to gasp like a beached fish. His hand went automatically to his throat, and his eyes began to lose that rather distressingly bulged look.
‘I will not have that sort of thing going on,’ Jenny added, aware that she was sounding like an escapee from a rather bad British film, but not caring much. Her eyes glittered angrily. All too often in the past, she’d been minding her own business, just doing her job and cooking good food, when somebody decided to bump somebody else off. And the worst of it was, it was usually left to her to find out the who and why of it! Well, she was getting heartily sick of it.
‘Now, behave yourself,’ she finished, eyeing first the slack-jawed Lucas Finch, and then the fast-beginning-torally Gabriel Olney.
‘Finch, you . . . you . . .’ he spluttered, and Jenny turned on him with a gimlet gaze.
She raised one finger in his direction. ‘Mr Olney,’ she said. Just that. Nothing more. Gabriel Olney stared at her, then fumed at Finch, then began to stroke his moustache.
The parrot coughed and began to thoroughly inspect his claws for dirt.
Jenny, once assured that peace had been resumed, nodded, turned and left, glancing curiously at the Leighs as she did so. She couldn’t help but notice that both of them looked delighted at Gabriel Olney’s obvious physical discomfort.
She walked to the galley, poured a glass of lemonade and returned with it. Without a word she handed it to the now silent Gabriel, who, after a startled pause, took it and tentatively swallowed, wincing at the soreness of his throat. He managed to croak rather desultory thanks.
She once more bypassed the quiet but gleeful Leighs, and returned to her galley and the basting venison.
And that, she thoroughly hoped, was the end of that. It was, of course, something of a forlorn hope.
*
Jenny sprinkled some thyme on the top of the dishes of cold cucumber and watercress soup, and handed the tray across to Francis.
Francis carried it solemnly to the sideboard in the dining room, and glanced poker-faced at the guests.
The table had been covered with a pristine white cloth. In the centre rested sparkling silver candlesticks with tall, elegantly tapering green candles. Around the base was a froth of pink, red and white carnations. Deep red napkins rested beside places set with green Worcester plates. Even if he said it himself, Francis thought smugly, he had done a wonderful job with the table. Small crystal finger bowls filled with scented water matched the pattern of the crystal goblets.
It was a lovely scene, and the guests sat around it were as elegant as the table. The ladies, catching the spirit of the cruise, had all changed into their finery.
Dorothy Leigh, of course, would look stunning in a sack, but was wearing a silver and gold lamé evening dress, radiating beauty and health. In a different way, the scarlet-garbed and dark-headed Jasmine Olney looked equally eye-catching, but was aided by a stunning diamond necklace, which she wore with undeniable panache.
The men, including Lucas, were all dressed in tuxedos. It was a pity, Francis thought, that none of them were talking. Only the gentle ‘clink’ of Francis’s soup plates being distributed broke the silence.
Dorothy Leigh was the first brave soul to attempt to do anything about it.
‘I had a wonderful swim this afternoon,’ she said, to nobody in particular, and lifted her spoon for a tentative sip of soup. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought about cold soups — she could only ever think of soup and imagine steaming broth — but this was delicious. It had a lovely flavour; not cloying, but not wishy-washy either. It was clear and deliciously tangy. ‘Mmm, this is lovely,’ she said, prompting Lucas to half-heartedly reach for his own spoon.
Only Gabriel ate with a hearty appetite, and if he occasionally winced when swallowing, it didn’t seem to annoy him too much. In fact, he was looking almost unbearably smug. Not that he was openly grinning. Nor had he yet said a word. But everyone, especially David Leigh (who seemed to have particularly sensitive antennae as far as Olney was concerned), sensed a very strong feeling of gloating emanating from the man. It seemed to waft from him in a particularly noxious but invisible cloud. It was almost unbearable for David to sit still for it, when all he wanted to do was launch himself across the table and smash his fist into that oily face. Smash and smash and smash . . .
Francis turned, glanced once at Lucas, and almost paused at the expression on his employer’s face. He recovered at once though and carried on, walking back to the galley in soft-footed silence, but a long, almost telepathic look had already passed between them.
Dorothy noticed it especially.
She’d remarked to her husband on their earlier trip on the Stillwater Swan that Francis and Lucas made a very odd pair. Lucas was just so cockney, and Francis was so proper. They should have been oil and water, but weren’t. They seemed to conspire against the world in some odd sort of way. It was almost spooky.
Now she took another sip of soup, and tried again to break the deadlock.
‘I must say, I really do like this,’ she offered stiltedly. ‘You wouldn’t have thought our cook would have had such a subtle hand, would you? Not to look at her, I mean,’ she laughed. ‘When I went for my swim this afternoon I saw her sitting ou
t on the deck, and I could have sworn she was asleep.’
‘Probably stuffed herself on all the leftovers from lunch,’ Jasmine said cattily, and totally inaccurately.
Jenny always prepared a plate of food for herself at the same time as she prepared the plates for the guests.
Jenny was no mug.
In the galley, Francis returned, his face thoughtful.
Something was up, that was for sure. He’d never seen Lucas look so upset and uneasy before.
Just then, Captain Lester came through from the bridge. The Swan was moored not a mile from Chimney, and he accepted the plate of soup the cook gave him with a somewhat distracted air. He looked at Francis.
‘Any idea why Lucas wants me and Brian to join them—’ he nodded in the salon’s direction ‘—after dinner, for drinks?’
Francis frowned. First of all, he had no idea what Lucas intended, which normally was totally unheard of. Lucas always told him everything. Everything. And secondly, Lucas never asked the captain or O’Keefe to mingle with the guests at dinner time. During the day, yes. But never during the more formal evening meal. It broke the atmosphere of elegance and olde-worlde dining that Lucas strove to create, and which he himself enjoyed so much.
‘It must be something unusual,’ Tobias Lester added — a shade uneasily, Jenny thought. ‘I said as much to Brian when he asked us.’
‘When was this?’ she asked automatically, then could have kicked herself for asking. After all, it was none of her business.
‘About five.’
After the scene with Gabriel Olney then, she thought, before she could stop herself.
She sighed as she watched Francis depart then return with hardly touched soup bowls. She stared at the bowls grimly and handed over stuffed crabs on a bed of rice.
Even Tobias, usually a hearty eater, couldn’t do the crab she handed him justice. She made up a tray for the engineer, intending to take it to him later. Perhaps he, at least, would appreciate it.
The cook became grimmer and grimmer as the evening wore on, and the plates kept returning, barely picked at.
What was wrong with these people? she fumed. She went to all the trouble of creating a multi-course masterpiece of contrasting tastes, textures, sights and smells, all of which were culinary delights, and they didn’t even have the good manners to eat them.
It was enough to make her spit tacks.
Well, she’d see they ate the baked Alaska, if she had to ladle it out herself and spoon feed the lot of them!
So it was that Jenny Starling herself brought in the towering, impressive dessert and put it on the sideboard for Francis to serve.
Tobias Lester was asked to send for the engineer, and Lucas Finch, looking curiously stiff-faced and unnaturally silent, poured a dozen glasses of champagne. David Leigh accepted his glass, looking merely bewildered. Dorothy politely refused, on account of her condition. Jasmine took hers, and peered over the rim of it at the sour-faced Brian O’Keefe, giving him an openly and blatantly smouldering look. Lucas’s hands shook as he held his own glass.
Only Gabriel Olney looked at ease. As well he might.
‘I’ve called you all here to join me in a toast to the new master of the Stillwater Swan,’ he said, dropping the bombshell in a voice so monotone that it was obvious he had been rehearsing the simple stark line for a long time.
Jasmine Olney gasped audibly.
Tobias Lester looked as if he’d been poleaxed.
Brian O’Keefe went as pale as his swarthy colouring would let him, which was surprisingly pale indeed.
Francis almost dropped his glass. His eyes flew to those of his master.
Lucas’s left eye twitched as he raised his glass. ‘To Gabby,’ he said, and swigged the finest Krug as if it were cyanide.
CHAPTER SIX
It was just beginning to turn dark, that lovely deepening of lavender into something more nocturnal. A warm breeze played like velvet over the skin, whilst a gibbous moon celebrated by turning from the colour of milk to the more emphatic colour of a mature cheese.
The last of the aerial patrols of swooping swifts peeled off high overhead, their screeching and screaming calls piercing the night air in a last hurrah. A rarely seen, soft-winged barn owl set off on his night’s hunting, whilst the sky steadily turned to sapphire and the stars began to twinkle like an accompaniment of diamonds.
Jenny rested against the deck rails on the port deck, glad that the evening meal was over and the debris from it all cleared away, and she could now mourn it in a dignified silence. Tomorrow, for lunch, she would have to do something clever with all the leftovers. She refused, but simply refused, to let good food go to waste.
She heard a soft footfall behind her and half turned, seeing the leonine head of Tobias Lester as he crossed the rear decking and pushed open the engine room door. ‘All settled down for the night?’ She heard his voice, dull and flat, echo easily across the stillness of the night.
Brian O’Keefe’s reply was a terse affirmative. Both men sounded tense, and little wonder, Jenny mused. And as the captain and the engineer talked together quietly, she strained to catch their words, but couldn’t quite manage it. They sounded friendly enough though, as if adversity had bonded them together with a far stronger cement than the mere shared duties of keeping the Swan in good working order.
In fact, the more they talked, the more conspiratorial their tone seemed to become — as if they were plotting some scheme, and thus needed to whisper.
The thought made her feel uneasy.
Jenny sighed, knowing she had to get away from the murmur of masculine voices, otherwise she was going to become downright paranoid. On the other hand, she had no wish to retire early. Her bedroom was a cramped space in which she could hardly turn around, and she was still roiling and simmering with righteous indignation over the fate of her feast. Perhaps a moonlit stroll would calm her and bring about a return of her equilibrium. As a large person, with a large personality to match, Jenny Starling cherished her equilibrium. She liked to feel centred and balanced.
She left the boat, glad of the light from the nearly full moon, and found a well-worn path that meandered through the open meadows. Buttercups had closed up their business for the night, their petals furled tightly into pale orbs. Every now and then, the perfume of clover wafted on the warm night breeze, and moths and bats winged by in a mutual, potentially fatal ballet. After a while, Chimney’s church clock tolled out the hour of eleven. Jenny paused to listen, then somewhat reluctantly turned back towards the Stillwater Swan.
She wasn’t happy with the way things were going. What on earth had induced Lucas Finch to sell the boat to Gabriel Olney of all people? That afternoon’s rumpus between the two men had obviously played a big part in it — it hardly took a genius to come to that conclusion! And if she had figured out as much, so had everyone else.
One thing was for certain: no one but Gabriel himself seemed at all happy about it. Even his wife had been shooting daggers at him all evening, which was faintly surprising. She’d have thought a woman like Jasmine Olney would have relished being the mistress of such a prestigious acquisition as the Swan. She could easily see the chic and stylish Jasmine holding soirées and playing the gracious hostess to a party of B-list celebs. Obviously there was something else going on in the Olney marriage that was causing friction.
And something was seriously biting David Leigh. Every time she went near him, she could feel him practically vibrating with angst. It was scaring his sweet and devoted wife too, and that couldn’t be good for her.
Jenny sighed deeply and wearily. Things were becoming nasty, and no doubt about it. And although she’d only known them a short time, the passengers and crew of the Stillwater Swan were beginning to exert their influence over her. She’d be glad to get back to the security of Oxford, before she became even more embroiled. Still, she cheered herself up with the thought that there was only one more day to go — and a Sunday, the traditional day of peace and rest,
at that.
Hah! A little voice sneered at the back of her mind, and she determinedly ignored it.
They had a long stretch of river to negotiate tomorrow, with no further villages in which to moor before their final destination of Swinford. There she would spend the night at the local pub, then catch the first bus back to Wainscott House and collect her trusty little van.
Perhaps next year she really would take a holiday. Oh, not to the seaside, but inland somewhere. Scotland, perhaps. She could learn how to make a proper haggis.
As she approached the river, she heard the low murmur of voices from the riverbank, and stopped, in some amazement, to watch Tobias and Brian put up a fairly large tent.
As Brian rolled out some sleeping bags, the cook suddenly realized that, with all the rooms on the Swan currently occupied, the crew had no other choice but to camp out on the shore. She glanced to the right, and sure enough, pitched a good few yards away was a slightly smaller but very neat little tent.
The good Francis, no doubt, preferred not to kip down with mere engineers and a glorified — if nautical — chauffeur. Jenny coughed, just to alert all concerned that she was about, and then stepped out from the shadows of the trees.
‘Good evening, Captain,’ she said pleasantly, and saw Tobias turn her way briefly. In the darkness she couldn’t make out the expression on his face.
‘Hello there . . . er . . . Cook,’ he said, his voice still stuck in a flat, dreary monotone. No doubt in the aftermath of Lucas Finch’s announcement he had forgotten her given name, but Jenny didn’t mind. Being called by her title was more gratifying anyway.
She walked to the wide plank that connected the Swan safely with the bank and stepped onto the deck, almost bumping into somebody coming the opposite way. It was, of course, the other person who rebounded off her girth and had to take a few staggering steps backwards. ‘Sorry,’ Jenny said automatically.
‘That’s all right, dear lady,’ came back the unmistakable voice of Gabriel Olney. ‘I should have been looking where you were going,’ he added with what he supposed was dry wit. His voice, unlike that of the captain, was rich with feeling. Too much feeling, in fact. Jenny didn’t appreciate being patronized.