The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(10)

With just a bit more practice, David thought with a near-hysterical and grim twist of his lips, he could have a lucrative second career as a forger ahead of him.

*

In the beautiful old town of Woodstock, Gabriel Olney checked his tie in the mirror. It was perfectly straight and impeccably knotted. It was navy blue, and bore the insignia of a very good public school. He stood ramrod straight, looking every inch the colonel he had once been. He was not tall, at five feet eight, but the very rigidity with which he habitually stood to attention made him seem taller. He was going to be sixty-one on his next birthday, but he was as lean and fit as a whippet.

His dark grey eyes checked that his moustache was properly trimmed, and that his dark blue ‘sailing’ jacket was without a crease. He gave a brass button an eagle-eyed check, but it shone as only good old-fashioned spit and polish could make it shine. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.

Unlike David Leigh, Gabriel Olney was looking forward to the weekend. Very much so.

He smiled a rather hard, gimlet-eyed smile as he took off the jacket and began, very carefully and very neatly, to pack his small overnight case. His wife’s larger case already lay half packed on the bed, crammed with garments she’d simply tossed in, willy-nilly.

He gave it a scathing look.

When his shaving things were neatly stowed, and his deck shoes (encased in polythene, of course, to ensure that they could make no dirty marks) were neatly tucked away at the side, he shut the lid and zipped it up. Then he straightened and reached into his wallet. From it he exacted a cheque.

It was a very large cheque.

As he looked at the row of noughts, he smiled with gloating satisfaction.

And if the same fictional somebody who might have been watching David Leigh had now been stood peering over his shoulder, they’d have been very surprised indeed. For the cheque was not made out to Gabriel Olney, but was made out by Gabriel Olney to Lucas Finch.

But still Gabriel, late colonel in what he considered to be one of the best regiments in the land, smiled with eminent satisfaction as he considered the vast sum of money he intended to part with.

*

At that particular moment in time, Jenny Starling was also smiling like the cat that got the cream. And found a canary in it to boot.

She was standing in the large kitchen of Wainscott House, going over every item the butcher, fishmonger and greengrocer had brought in their smart little refrigerated vans.

The butcher had arrived first, bearing lean cuts of venison, marbled steaks, prime lamb, fresh pork and smoked bacon. Not even Jenny had been able to find a single fault with the tender meat.

The fishmonger had arrived just as she’d finished carefully storing the meat in the large fridge at Wainscott House. She would only remove the food to the Stillwater Swan first thing in the morning.

The fishmonger had fared rather less well than the butcher, for Jenny had insisted that he take away his mussels and return with a batch that suited her fastidious tastes better. She’d compounded his misery by rejecting two of his trout, which, she insisted, after a beady-eyed look at their gills, could be chucked in the bin, thank you very much. But she was happy with the prawns, crab, salmon and whitebait, although she did reject his oysters.

Jenny disliked cooking oysters, ever since that very distressing incident concerning the Russian ambassador’s wife, and the six bottles of vodka.

The greengrocer, last of all to arrive, had to watch and wince as she minutely inspected every vegetable and piece of fruit that he laid out for her, from the leeks to the quinces, the asparagus to the grapes. He left with only a few bruised apples, some unwholesome-looking bananas and a dented kiwi.

All in all, not a bad haul, Jenny thought, looking at her list of goodies. Already her heart was thumping. Breakfast was easy enough, of course, for a full English breakfast was a must. She could make some fresh sausages with the pork and the herbs she’d already gathered from the kitchen garden, served with smoked bacon, grilled tomatoes and of course, plenty of fried eggs, which always went down a treat with the men.

For the ladies, though, and especially Dorothy Leigh, Jenny would include the options of delicately flavoured omelettes, porridge and perhaps a little French toast.

Lunches, too, would be a snap, with plenty of salads, a cold chicken and ham pie, perhaps even a huge fruit salad, to help keep the guests cool and refreshed on a hot summer’s day.

But the evening meal . . .

Jenny sat down eagerly, pulling the list of goodies towards her and letting her imagination run riot.

There would have to be hors d’oeuvres, of course — smoked salmon blinis, asparagus wrapped in pancetta, mini bruschettas . . . She sighed in bliss. Then, for a second course, perhaps some lobster cocktails — and she mustn’t forget soup, of course. A rich game soup, or, no, perhaps something lighter . . . pea and mint, or lettuce and spring onion. Yes, very nice on a sultry summer evening.

And for the main course . . . Jenny’s heart very nearly sang a song. Well, Lucas Finch had promised her she could go wild. Perhaps eels. No, perhaps not. Not with a pregnant woman seated at table. Veal fricassee, perhaps, or venison à la royale.

Hmm . . .

And desserts that looked as beautiful as they tasted. They’d have to be cold, of course. A pity that, but it was high summer. Almond cream with greengage jam would go lovely with a variety of things. Apple gateau, or apricot soufflé . . . yes, especially for Dorothy Leigh. Or maybe a baked Alaska.