The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(26)

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.

‘Yes, perhaps you should,’ she said, somewhat coolly. ‘I am, after all, big enough to be seen,’ she added, totally flooring the old ex-soldier, who stared after her as she left, his mouth falling open in surprise.