The Castle Mystery Page 4

  And now for breakfast. She glanced at her watch, found it was only 6:30, and smiled. Traditional English breakfast of course — bacon, sausages, tomatoes (if the greenhouses had any), eggs fresh from the hen house and those kidneys she’d discovered yesterday at the back of the fridge. Now who, she mused, had tried to hide them away?

  Lunch at the castle was always a simple affair — something light or just sandwiches, Elsie had told her. And the trick to good sandwiches, Jenny knew, was variety and properly baked bread. But today there was this tea, which wasn’t really tea but a chance for her new employers to show off their new cook to their — hopefully — suitably envious friends.

  Jenny stretched in bliss, contemplating a full day’s cooking ahead of her, yawned extravagantly, then rolled out of bed.

  She quickly washed, dressed, and brushed her cap of dark, shining hair into tidy order. In the bedroom’s large and anciently spotted mirror, her blue eyes shone.

  Little onion tarts. She’d have a quick tour of the river that meandered through the outlying meadows and see if she could find some watercress. Make some mayonnaise. Yes, she had a busy day ahead. Just how she liked it. And then there was dinner.

  Jenny was still contemplating dinner when she reached the kitchen and found Elsie already ensconced and inevitably drinking tea. ‘Good morning, Elsie. You’re an early riser, I see.’

  Elsie grunted, but was already on her feet and pouring out another cup. ‘Usual breakfast then?’ she asked, as she watched Jenny set about the frying pans and check the vegetable oil.

  ‘Yes. The sausage skins need puncturing, please, and be sure to give the bacon rind a good scoring. Does the family like their bacon crispy?’

  ‘Ah, his lordship likes his practically burned.’

  ‘OK.’ Jenny relaxed over her first cup of tea and thought about dinner. Steak and onion pie, mashed potatoes boiled with sprigs of mint, glazed carrots and diced swede, lightly buttered. And for his lordship’s pudding? Well, she’d promised him rhubarb and custard, so that settled it.

  Outside, the sun began to shine as if it meant it for the first time in a week, so she set about opening all the windows and side doors leading out to the vegetable gardens. Her menu was planned, the sun was shining, and Elsie was firmly in her corner. Nothing could go wrong now.

  She should have known better. She really should.

  * * *

  ‘Ahh, Miss Starling,’ her ladyship said, her usual greeting now causing not a hint of panic in the cook. ‘That breakfast was superb.’

  ‘Good bacon,’ Lord Avonsleigh grunted over his paper and toast. She had been called to the breakfast room just before nine o’clock. She was glad she hadn’t put the bread in the oven yet. She liked to keep an eye on that.

  ‘About Colonel and Mrs Attling. I thought, since the weather’s changed, we’d have it out on the terrace,’ Lady Vee swept on. ‘Normally when we entertain friends we do it in the sunroom, it has such a pleasant aspect, but the colonel spent a lot of time in the Far East, you know, and simply can’t stand to be indoors if the sun is shining.’

  Jenny nodded sympathetically in understanding. ‘Lemonade?’ she hazarded softly, and Lady Vee beamed.

  ‘Mrs Attling is so fond of it,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll tell Meecham about the change of venue. If you could have everything ready for three?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Three it is,’ she murmured.

  Back in the kitchen, with the staff’s breakfast cleared away, the day began for her in earnest. It also began in earnest for others.

  A killer among them . . .

  * * *

  Upstairs, in a large and airy room that Lady Roberta rather liked, she watched Miss Simmons pace about in front of her. On the CD player was a Bach concerto that neither of them were listening to, although Roberta knew she’d be asked questions about it afterwards.

  Roberta glanced at her watch. Another hour and a half and she would be with Malcolm. What would he make of her sunset painting? Would he lean over behind her, right up close, to point something out, as he sometimes did? Roberta hoped so. She could smell his aftershave if he did that, and his cheek was so close to hers that she could touch it, if she suddenly swung her head around. Although he was getting wise to that trick, she remembered mournfully. Still, sometimes his shoulder would touch hers, and the shivers that went through her were delicious.

  ‘Listen carefully to this piano piece, Lady Roberta. I have the music sheet for it somewhere, and we’ll see how well you can play it this afternoon.’ Roberta nodded attentively. Then glanced at her watch. An hour and a quarter. Ava Simmons continued her pacing, her brow deeply furrowed.

  Lady Roberta’s tutor was in fact deep in thought. Tomorrow he would come, and then . . . well, then she would act. She didn’t want to do it. The whole thing was so distasteful. But she had never shirked her responsibilities, and she wouldn’t start now. Other women might jib at doing what she was going to do, but she was made of sterner stuff. She had faced a lot of unpleasantness in her short life. With her father being like he was — a monster — and her mother abandoning her when she was but twelve — yes, Ava Simmons was made of strong stuff indeed.

  * * *

  In her ladyship’s bedroom, Gayle Meecham reached for the afternoon dress that Lady Vee had selected, and took it to the dressing room. There she put on the iron, and waited for it to heat up. When the family chose to entertain family and friends, Gayle would usually act as an extra maid.

  The butler’s daughter sighed deeply and ran a hand across her forehead. She had a headache, but that was not unusual. Just lately, her head seemed to be perpetually throbbing. If only she’d had the courage to disobey her father yesterday morning. Nothing good would come of what they were planning. She knew it, deep inside. It was nasty, there was no other word for it. As she’d tried to tell him yesterday, two wrongs did not make a right. They never had, they never would. But would he listen? Which meant that now she had no choice. Her father was a clever man in many ways. He managed the running of the castle — and his lordship — with tact and gentle aplomb. But when it came to the realities of the world . . . well, her father needed Avonsleigh as much as Avonsleigh needed him. He couldn’t really exist in the outside world. Which was why, when the outside world had come crashing into their lives just weeks ago, she knew it would be up to her to look after him.

  He would never get away with what he was planning without her help. He simply had no real flair for villainy. At heart, he was a gentle man. But a man obsessed. And she wished, oh she wished, that he would change his mind.

  It would happen today, or more likely tomorrow. And once that initial step had been taken, there would be no going back.

  She reached for the iron and absent-mindedly tested it with her finger. An instant later she gave a small cry and pulled her hand away quickly. The iron was red-hot. Too hot for the dress, and she quickly turned the dial down a few notches.

  It was not like her to be so careless.

  For a long while, Gayle Meecham stared at her burnt finger, her headache gradually getting worse.

  * * *

  Up in the studio, Malcolm Powell-Brooks stared at the painting in front of him. He’d been working on it all morning, safe in the knowledge that Roberta was being kept firmly out of the way by the redoubtable Ava. His lips twisted as he stared at the grey and green landscape on his easel. It was not good enough. He knew it. Hell, any second-rate first-year art student would know it was no good.

  With an angry sigh he threw down his paintbrush and walked to the window. Damn it all. He was just so distracted and unable to concentrate. He was worried. And scared. Oh yes, he thought grimly, he was scared. Damn her!

  * * *

  Janice gave the huge Ming vase a final flick with her duster and turned away, oblivious to the fact that her duster had just caused to wobble a vase worth nearly £10,000.

  The ubiquitous treasures of Avonsleigh might make the occasional museum executive gasp in delight, but Janice took
little notice of the art around her. She came from a big family, and had moved out of her parents’ cramped council house just as quickly as she’d been able to, so she was grateful for her large room at the castle, and the peace and quiet she enjoyed in her hours off.

  Today, though, she was in no mood to count her blessings. She knew what Danny was up to. Oh yes, she knew. She was nowhere near as stupid as some people liked to think. And she wouldn’t let him get away with it. She was meeting him this afternoon, and she would have it out with him once and for all. If he thought she was going to stand for it, he’d better think again. Nobody messed Janice Beale about.

  She was pretty enough to have any man she wanted, and it was high time that Danny learned that. She would put a spoke in his wheel, all right. Oh yes, she thought grimly, as she gave an eighteenth-century wall plaque a vigorous dusting. She’d fix his plans, good and proper.

  * * *

  Jenny’s huge mound of sandwiches dwindled to an empty plate as lunchtime came and went and the staff of Avonsleigh did likewise. Roberta, Jenny noticed, skipped having lunch with her grandparents and tucked into the watercress and egg mayonnaise sandwiches as if she was ravenous. Meecham, the cook noticed with a slight frown, ate practically nothing. Malcolm was the first to leave the kitchen, but Janice took his place, tucking in and saying very little. Jenny, used to judging people from the perspective of food, began to feel uneasy.

  Something was up. It was nothing she could put her finger on precisely, but there was an undercurrent present today that had been absent yesterday. Or had it been there all the time, and she was only now picking up on it?

  ‘What kind of garden furniture has been set up on the terrace, Mr Meecham?’ she asked, determined to break the rather oppressive silence.

  Meecham jumped, as if dragged from a vast depth of thought. ‘Hmm? Oh, a huge wrought-iron table, solid as a rock. Plenty of room for all your goodies.’

  Ava Simmons glanced at the cook and smiled. ‘Are you settling in all right, Miss Starling?’ she asked thoughtfully, and Jenny smiled.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Simmons. Would you like another sandwich?’

  Ava declined with murmured thanks, and then glanced over at Roberta. ‘Lady Roberta, we have those Byron poems to discuss.’

  Lady Roberta sighed theatrically, but in truth didn’t mind. She’d found his scandalous life story rather titillating. Besides, she’d once seen a painting of the poet, and he’d looked a lot like Malcolm. Those same brooding eyes. That same rakish air of smouldering passion. ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know,’ Roberta quoted Lady Caroline Lamb with a cheeky grin. ‘I’m surprised you dare to read him, Simm. Aren’t you afraid he’ll corrupt me?’ she added, her voice just a touch sharp.

  Jenny turned in time to see a rather spiteful or perhaps angry look flit across her young face. Since girls today probably knew more about sex than many of their elders, she wondered why a no doubt very worldly-wise teenager wanted to bait her tutor with something so innocuous.

  Ava Simmons, though, merely smiled. ‘Glad to see you’re using your initiative, Lady Roberta,’ she responded smoothly, not a whit put out. ‘Not to mention your grandfather’s rather excellent library.’

  Roberta looked for a moment as if she might stamp her foot in a fit of old-fashioned temper, but then a reluctant smile crossed her face. She really was a likeable teenager, Jenny thought. She might not like her tutor, but she certainly respected her. Not many sixteen-year-olds had that kind of maturity.

  As her kitchen emptied once more, the cook turned her thoughts to the important things in life. Onion tarts. Fresh bread. Her feeling of unease was firmly brushed away.

  But it would come back. And with a vengeance.

  * * *

  In the cool of the butler’s pantry, Meecham reached for an old jam jar that contained his mother’s secret recipe. She claimed it could clean the dirt from the devil, and he was inclined to believe her. Many people had remarked on the sparkling quality of the Avonsleigh silver.

  Fastidiously rolling up his shirt sleeves, Meecham reached for a clean cloth, dipped it in the pale yellow goo from the jam jar, and reached for the dagger. For a moment he admired it, turning it this way and that. No wonder the colonel always examined it whenever he came. No doubt it reminded him of long-ago days in Malaysia. Or wherever.

  Meecham smeared the handle and began to rub vigorously, using his fingernails to delve into the crevices created by the gems, humming away softly as he worked. Time flew by, and he jumped when the pantry door flew open and the new cook stood there, looking worried.

  ‘Mr Meecham, we’re out of flour! I can’t believe it. Didn’t the old cook keep the larder well stocked?’

  Miss Starling, Meecham mused, would never panic. Her voice was calm, if just a little high. Jenny was, however, as close to panic as she ever came.

  The butler smiled. ‘The flour is kept in the cellar, Miss Starling, along with the wine, the root vegetables and some of the overwintering fruit. Elsie will know where to find it.’

  Jenny let out a long, infinitely relieved breath and smiled. Of course Elsie would know. She should have asked her in the first place. She glanced down at the dagger in his hand, but her mind was on flour. Not on sudden death.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Meecham,’ she said with a quiet, self-derogatory smile, and withdrew. Crisis over.

  Meecham carried on cleaning the dagger. He cleaned it for a solid hour. Lovingly, and with infinite patience.

  * * *

  Ava Simmons glanced at her watch, and saw that the time was getting on. Where was that child? Byron over, she was supposed to meet her here in the music room after a short break. No doubt she was in the artist’s studio, mooning over that man again.

  Ava ran a hand along the grand piano, smiling at the perfectly tuned chords that echoed across the room. Both Lady Vee and her husband were tone deaf, but who cared when they could afford such a piano, and such a room? The tiled floor and plain walls echoed back the sounds of musical instruments perfectly.

  Ava sighed enviously and walked with masked impatience to the door. She would just have to drag the girl away from Malcolm Powell-Brooks. As usual.

  As she opened the door and crossed the short, flagged inner hall, she noticed that the door to the conservatory was open, and she paused, surprised. Old Seth, the head gardener, was always on about the importance of the conservatory being kept at a constant temperature. There were some valuable and quite beautiful orchids in there, she knew, and anybody visiting it always shut the door after them, from the family right down to Elsie. It had become second nature to everybody living at the castle.

  With an exasperated sigh, she reached for the door and was about to close it, when she saw someone move inside.

  Someone beckoning to her.

  Curious, Ava Simmons walked in.

  * * *

  Colonel Attling turned off his purring Bentley and walked briskly around to his passenger door, opening it for his wife with a distracted air. He was looking forward to talking to old George again. He knew how to fish, too. Perhaps he could wangle a day out on the Avonsleigh trout lake.

  His wife looked at his distant expression and smiled indulgently. She smiled again as Meecham met them at the door and led them solemnly through the castle towards the sunroom. In a small hall, both of their hosts were waiting. Mrs Attling ran sharp eyes over Lady Vee’s impeccable peach dress and was relieved that she herself had worn mint-green. It could be so embarrassing, even amongst old friends, to clash with one’s hostess. Colour-wise, that is. ‘Vee, dear.’

  ‘Millie! So glad you could come. We have a new cook at last!’ her ladyship began, cutting to the crux of the matter immediately. Millicent, too, was a gastronome of similar taste, and both women had been worrying about the lack of a cook at Avonsleigh.

  ‘You look pleased with her,’ Millicent said, ignoring her husband, who had stopped in his usual place to admire the usual item.

  ‘I am. She’s a treasure. Just yo
u wait . . .’ The two women moved off, chattering like well-bred magpies, so that his lordship and the colonel could begin their own pleasures.

  ‘I still wish you’d sell it, old chap,’ the colonel said, staring up at the jewelled dagger with envious, covetous eyes. ‘I know the old pension doesn’t stretch too far these days, but I have the odd acre or two on the estate I could sell off.’

  Lord Avonsleigh laughed. ‘You could no more sell your land than I could dismiss Meecham, Bill, you old fraud,’ he chortled, and the colonel laughed in agreement. Nevertheless, he gave the dagger a last, yearning glance before following his old friend through to the sunroom to join the ladies on the terrace beyond.

  Behind him, a huge grandfather clock boomed out the hour of three o’clock.

  ‘Damn thing’s deafening,’ his lordship muttered over the roar, and the colonel laughed.

  ‘What good’s a clock if you can’t hear it, eh?’ he bellowed back.

  On the terrace, the sun shone with such pleasant strength that Lady Vee quickly raised the parasol positioned in the centre of the table. The two men elected to sit fully in the sun.

  ‘I do love this little garden,’ Millicent said, looking around. Lavatera bushes thrust pink blooms into all corners of the small square, whilst a lavish rose bed was surrounded by a diamond of perfectly clipped boxed yew. Directly facing them was the conservatory, and Millicent let her eyes wander over it. ‘Is that a new orchid I can see growing there, Agnes dear?’ she asked, pointing to the glass house and a spray of creamy blooms.

  Lady Vee smiled. ‘It’s Seth’s passion. Orchids and something else unpronounceable. I like to indulge him. He grows such wonderful onions.’

  Meecham coughed, as if on cue, and placed on the table a huge selection of goodies. Onion flans, large sandwiches (with the crusts still on, of course) overflowing with tender ham, home-made chutney and lettuce. Sausage rolls, warm and flaky from the oven. A large Madeira cake eclipsed a slightly smaller fruitcake. A huge glass jug full of real lemonade, filled with ice and trickling with condensation set everyone’s parched throat contracting in happy anticipation.