The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(24)
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.