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

The house was a solid, square structure, no doubt an old farmhouse in former days. It had a delightful front garden; a ‘proper’ garden, as her grandmother would have said. At the side walls grew hollyhocks and delphiniums, foxgloves and Canterbury bells. A stone path led straight down the middle to the front door, and was edged by pansies, marigolds, love-in-a-mists, feverfew and Sweet Williams. A honeysuckle grew up the front porch, framing the old wooden door with fragrant blooms. Bees and butterflies wove their happy pollen-drunken way through the warm air, filling it with sound and fluttering colour.

Jenny sighed in rather envious bliss at the picture-postcard perfection of the scene, then glanced at her watch. She was early. Too bad. She marched up the path, set down her small case that she kept permanently packed for such short-term assignments like this one, and very firmly thumped on the door.

And Jenny could thump very firmly when she needed to. A moment later the door was opened by a tall, thin, grey-haired man, with watery blue eyes. On his left shoulder sat a large scarlet macaw. Its beady eyes settled on her as the bird cocked its head curiously to one side.

‘Hello,’ it said. Quite clearly. Jenny smiled at it.

Lucas Finch gaped rudely at the shapely giantess in front of him, and his jaw fell comically open. ‘Bugger me,’ he said at last.

Jenny, not a whit put out by the rather unconventional greeting, smiled politely and held out her hand. ‘I’m Miss Starling,’ she said firmly.

As if she could be anybody else.

Lucas started, making the parrot’s tail upend in an effort to keep his balance, and then thrust out his own hand to take hers in a hearty grip. ‘Lucas Finch,’ he said jovially.

‘I wrote in answer to your advertisement for a cook for the weekend?’ she prompted, when he made no move to either speak or invite her in.

Lucas blinked, then suddenly seemed to recover his equilibrium. ‘Oh, right. Yes. That’s right. Er . . . yes. Er . . . won’t you come in?’ He stepped back, and led her into what, just forty years ago, people referred to as the front parlour. It was now decked out to be something of an office-cum-study with a splendid view across the river and to the copse of trees on the opposite bank.

‘Er . . . won’t you sit down?’ he asked. He looked for all the world like a man who, having got what he wanted, now hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with it. ‘Er . . . drink?’

Jenny smiled. ‘A cold glass of squash would be nice?’ she asked, hopefully.

‘Squash?’ Lucas, who had gone automatically to the drinks cabinet, put down the decanter of whisky he was holding, and half turned. ‘Er . . . right. Squash.’

He was indeed, as her cyclist friend had informed her, most definitely a cockney. His words came down his nose with a cockney twang that would tarnish silver. ‘Squash,’ he said again, and stared forlornly at the drinks cabinet.

‘Or cold milk, if you prefer,’ Jenny added, guessing correctly that Mr Lucas Finch had probably never purchased squash in his life.

‘Milk!’ He brightened at once and disappeared briefly, returning a minute or so later with a glass full of the white liquid. It was so cold the glass had developed tiny beads of condensation, and Jenny took it gratefully. She and hot weather didn’t always see eye to eye. Eagerly she took a few good hefty swallows.

Lucas watched her generous chin wobble just slightly as she drank, and backed into a chair, unable to take his eyes from such an impressive sight. As a self-made man, and definite ‘character’ himself, he instinctively knew another ‘character’ when he came across one. And, because he was at heart a gregarious, people-friendly sort of chap, he found himself quite taking to his temporary cook.

Jenny put down the glass on her left knee, and glanced at him patiently.

Lucas smiled. ‘Right. You’re the cook,’ he said, then suddenly brightened. ‘Of course you are.’ As if, he might just as well have added out loud, you could possibly be anyone else.

Jenny caught on at once, and far from being offended, positively beamed at him. ‘My father always says you can’t trust a thin cook. It makes people feel uneasy,’ she said promptly.

Lucas Finch laughed. The parrot laughed.

Jenny laughed. Then, typically, got straight down to business. ‘Now, Mr Finch,’ she began briskly. ‘I understand you require a cook from Saturday breakfast to the Sunday evening meal?’

Lucas nodded, relaxing back into his chair. ‘That’s right.’ He was suddenly very much the businessman now, and potential host. ‘I have guests coming for the weekend. I don’t often entertain, but when I do, I like to do it right. I hate anything to be stingy. I have a housekeeper here, of course, but for guests, I like to push the boat out.’ And he laughed, as if at some private joke.

‘Exactly,’ Jenny concurred, her voice rich with approval. ‘Now, how many are you expecting?’

‘Well, there’s young David Leigh and his pretty little wife, Dorothy. She’s just discovered she’s up the spout, by the way, so if you see her barfing into the river, don’t think it’s something you cooked.’

Jenny’s polite smile froze. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ever so sweetly, if through gritted teeth. ‘I won’t.’ As if! The damned cheek of it. Even pregnant women, especially pregnant women, found her food sheer ambrosia.