The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(11)

Someone coughed.

Jenny looked up ferociously. She’d just begun to elevate herself into the lofty heights of foodie nirvana and she wasn’t too pleased to be brought down to earth with such an unkind bump.

‘Yes?’ she snapped. To a perfect stranger. Jenny blinked, and immediately apologized. ‘I do beg your pardon. I was miles away.’

The stranger inclined his head. And in that instant, Jenny was forever to believe that this man did everything silently. She had certainly not heard him come in, and since the kitchen was tiled, she should have heard him. And when he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Starling, but Mr Finch wondered if you would care to prepare this evening’s meal, or would you prefer for Mrs Jessop to do so?’

That this was the famous ‘manservant’ of Lucas Finch, Jenny was in no doubt. He was dressed in a white houseboy’s jacket that reminded the cook of all those films set in India, where the pukka sahib was waited on by expressionless Indians with round, soulful eyes.

But Francis Grey didn’t have round, soulful eyes. He was about fifty, she supposed, slim, and had an air of being so neat and tidy he hardly looked human. Not a hair was out of place. On this hot July afternoon, not a bead of perspiration dared quiver on his forehead.

‘Oh, I’d be delighted to cook the evening meal,’ Jenny said quickly, and with some considerable relief. She knew that Mrs Jessop could make a decent bed and arrange a mean gladioli floral display, but Jenny believed — quite rightly — that nobody could cook like she could cook.

‘How many are going to dine?’

Francis Grey blinked. ‘Just Mr Finch. Mrs Jessop and myself eat in here.’ He indicated the kitchen, and at the same time, and in some mysterious way that not even the perspicacious Jenny Starling was quite able to fathom, indicated that she also was to dine in the kitchen. Not that Jenny had ever intended to do anything else. Still, it rankled to have a ‘manservant’ make it quite so plain. She inclined her head somewhat stiffly. ‘And the captain and . . . er . . . Mr O’Keefe?’

Francis smiled. His face, Jenny noticed in disconcerted surprise, was so bland, so nondescript, that even though she was looking right at him, she’d have been hard pressed to actually describe what he looked like.

‘The crew see to their own meals,’ Francis said, somehow relegating the Stillwater Swan and her servants to another planet.

Jenny nodded. ‘Very well. What time would Mr Finch like to dine?’ she asked stiffly.

‘Eight-thirty is the usual time,’ Francis said, then he bowed and left. Or rather, not so much left as somehow floated away.

Jenny watched him go, and then, for some strange reason, shivered. Hard.





CHAPTER THREE

Jenny arose, somewhat reluctantly it had to be said, with the dawn chorus. She tiptoed stealthily down to the kitchen, not wishing to disturb either Lucas or Mrs Jessop, and yawningly made herself a cup of tea. This she sipped for a moment before deciding to take it out onto the lawn.

All around her, the cool early-morning air resonated with birdsong. The grass was still moist with dew, and far in the distance she could see a farmer, riding a red piece of farm equipment to the slope of a hill, no doubt in order to turn the hay. She sipped her delicious hot brew and watched the bees disappearing up the fluted bells of the foxglove flowers.

It was going to be another glorious day, as Captain Lester had so ably predicted yesterday. Already the sun was promising to blast its furnace-like heat down on her head as she made her way to her by now favourite spot under the plum tree. It looked, to her experienced eye, to be an old-fashioned Victoria plum, and she wished she could be here in the autumn to sample its fruit. Victorias made perfect plum tarts.

The very rustic-looking wooden bench groaned just slightly in protest as she sat down on it, and a thrush, who was in the process of whacking a snail against a stone, paused to eye her with rather dubious interest. He needn’t have worried — she was not that interested in sharing his breakfast. A nasty French habit, that. Snails. She could cook anything, but snails were the exception.

Jenny ignored the bird and continued to sip blissfully away at her tea. It was so nice to be on holiday, after all. She was just down to the final mouthful when she heard a cheerful whistle (of the non-avian kind) coming from the direction of the river. The tune was ‘Messing About On The River’ — a rather apt title under the circumstances, she mused with a smile.

Curious, Jenny strolled to the gate and stood leaning against what had probably once been a chicken coop to watch a dark young man step lithely aboard the Stillwater Swan. As he did so, he hefted a large bag of coal under one arm as if it were nothing more than a feather pillow. No doubt, the impressed cook surmised, this was Captain Lester’s neighbour and fellow worker, the engineer Brian O’Keefe.

She wondered idly whether his name could be put down to Irish or Scottish ancestry, but when he disappeared into the Swan’s boiler room, she shrugged and glanced at her watch. It was still only a quarter to six. She had plenty of time.

She returned to the kitchen and began the task of moving her precious food packages to the Swan. Although from time to time she still caught snatches of ‘Messing About On The River’ issuing from the boiler room, Brian O’Keefe never stuck his head out to ask who was about, although he must have heard her.