by Faith Martin
THE COUNTRY INN
MYSTERY
An absolutely gripping whodunit full of twists
(Jenny Starling Book 7)
FAITH MARTIN
First published 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Faith Martin
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
For everyone who likes to take a weekend break — without the murder, of course!
CHAPTER ONE
Jenny Starling watched the infused milk begin to move gently in the pan, and slipped in the salmon, haddock and hake pieces to poach. She gently prodded a crushed bay leaf down so that its oils would flavour what would then become the sauce for her rich and decadent fish pie, and sighed with satisfaction at the resulting aroma.
Outside, the second week of September had begun gratifyingly warm, and as she glanced out of the Spindlewood Inn’s kitchen window, her view of the gardens was bathed in gentle sunlight. Currently looking resplendent with chrysanthemums and other seasonal favourites, they had scattered around the flat lawn a number of wooden picnic tables for al fresco dining.
As this provided an added attraction for guests, the inn’s owners, Richard and Muriel Sparkey, were careful to keep the gardens looking their best.
As she set about peeling some luscious prawns to give her pie added ‘oomph,’ the travelling cook sighed with a sense of genuine pleasure and well-being.
It had been a lucky break for her when her old friend Patsy Vine had recommended her services as stand-in chef here, whilst Patsy took her own annual two-week summer holiday to Italy. Especially since the Spindlewood Inn was situated in the heart of the picturesque Cotswold village of Caulcott Deeping, thus offering a very pleasant working environment to any itinerant chef.
With a tributary of the Windrush river running close by, spanned by any number of pretty arched bridges, it was not surprising that the village had become something of a tourist attraction. Which meant that during the peak summer months there was no shortage of happy Americans, Japanese, Chinese or other European visitors staying in the inn’s modest six bedrooms.
But with the advent of September, the rush slowed to a trickle, hence Patsy’s late timing of her own summer break. Even so, the Spindlewood Inn was fully booked for that upcoming weekend, thanks to the ‘Regency Extravaganza’ that was being held there, the brainchild, apparently, of the local historical society and an am-dram group, the Caulcott Deeping Players. With Richard and Muriel’s eager consent, naturally, since it meant extra and unexpected revenue for them!
Jenny smiled now as she checked that her beetroot soup starter, (which would be served cold, naturally, with a dollop of basil pesto and some garlic-coated croutons,) was chilling properly in the fridge, and then set about preparing her blackberry and apple roulade.
Naturally, she’d assured her friend that the much-vaunted Regency menu would present no problems for her, and had had to all but chivvy her out of the door when the time came for her to catch her train for the airport. But the moment her friend was safely on her way to Italy, she’d quickly opened up her laptop and done some quick research on Regency dishes. Although she was sure she could cook anything required of her, she was not a food historian, nor did she have much knowledge of what they were eating back when Jane Austen was penning her novels!
The themed weekend began this evening — Friday — with the arrival of guests for dinner, and ended with Monday’s breakfast. Of course, there were also guests not staying at the inn who had reserved tables — mostly, Jenny surmised, members of the historical society, who would be getting into the spirit by dressing up in Regency-style costumes.
But after an hour or so of frantic googling, any lingering doubts that she might not be able to produce an authentic feast circa 1811–1820 had been laid to rest, and Jenny was now confident that she’d come up with a menu that would please her new employers.
And as if thinking about them had conjured one of them up, she suddenly heard a rustle behind her, and Muriel came quickly through the doorway. It was just gone four o’clock, and although the inn had opened at three-thirty, the locals at least were only interested in alcoholic consumption for the moment.
The guests for the Regency Extravaganza, however, were due to arrive any time between four and six, with their evening dinner due to start at seven-thirty. Luckily, however, before Patsy had left the two cooks had between them managed to do the bulk of the work necessary. And tomorrow Jenny would have the help of two local village women that Muriel had hired — somewhat reluctantly and on an ad hoc basis — to help out when really necessary.
It was from her old friend that Jenny had got the impression that the Sparkeys were very keen to make money, but very reluctant to spend it. Which had prompted Jenny to make sure she got her two weeks’ wages paid up front!
Muriel, who had celebrated her fortieth birthday back in April, was around five feet nine inches tall, and with her abundant short curly brown hair, clear complexion and large blue eyes, Jenny supposed she could get away with shaving five years off her age. The cook had also noticed that the landlady tended to speak with a certain amount of care and attention, which led her to suspect that Muriel was suppressing some kind of a strong accent. Cockney maybe?
‘Ah, how’s it coming Jenny?’ she asked now, her eyes darting around the kitchen, taking everything in. She looked relieved to see it neat and tidy but obviously in full production. Then she sniffed appreciatively. ‘Something smells good.’
‘Probably the poaching fish,’ Jenny smiled back.
There was beetroot soup or duck liver pâté with an orange and rocket salad for starters. Then a ‘luxury’ fish pie, a vegetarian aubergine dish, or a venison casserole for mains, followed by a choice of the roulade or raspberry mousse with shortbread for dessert. All of which was to be rounded off with the usual cheese and biscuit platter.
Muriel watched for a few minutes as Jenny competently set about making the shortbread, adding a touch of lavender to give the dessert a flowery lift. ‘Need any help?’ she eventually offered.
J
enny glanced up at her, and smiled amiably. ‘Only if you’re bored and want something to do,’ she said lightly. Having got the job on Patsy’s say-so rather than on her own merits, she was keen to reassure the landlady that she had everything under control.
Muriel gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ve got half an hour or so. Right now there’s only Old Walter out there,’ she nodded through the door, where what had once been the living quarters of the old residence now housed the bar, ‘and a few anglers telling tall tales about the one that got away. So I’m not exactly expecting a rush.’
‘Old Walter?’ Jenny echoed. ‘He sounds like he might be a bit of a character.’
Muriel rolled her eyes expressively. ‘He’s a pest is what he is. Ninety if he’s a day, he’s on the doorstep at the start of every opening hour, smelling faintly of manure and dressed like Worzel Gummidge. He then sits at the bar and orders pint after pint, until he starts to slide off the stool, at which point he staggers home.’
Jenny laughed. ‘I hope he manages to get home all right?’
‘Oh he does, don’t worry. He lives with his long-suffering daughter in one of the farms on the outskirts of the village. I reckon he’s got a guardian angel whose sole job it is to make sure that he doesn’t wander under the wheels of any passing traffic, or reel off and fall into the brook.’
The brook, Jenny came to realise, was what the locals called the stream that ran so picturesquely through the village, where it eventually formed a large, reed-fringed village pond. Then it meandered off through the water meadows that surrounded the village, to reunite with the Windrush itself just outside a neighbouring town.
‘Still, I suppose he provides a bit of local colour,’ Muriel conceded reluctantly. ‘The tourists love him anyway, so he more than earns his keep,’ she admitted pragmatically. ‘So, what can I do to help out?’
‘How do you feel about peeling carrots and potatoes?’ Jenny asked with a grin.
Muriel blinked, then grinned back. ‘Well, I asked for it!’ she said ruefully.
Jenny watched as she reached for a potato peeler, and as Muriel pulled up the sleeves of her sweater to avoid them getting wet, she saw the beginnings of a tattoo on her left arm. All Jenny could make out was a pair of talons — obviously from some fabulous bird of prey — that held a coloured ribbon or banner of some sort.
And once again, Jenny was convinced that Muriel had not grown up in the rarefied and genteel surroundings of the Cotswolds. Perhaps she was from somewhere up north, and the tattoo revealed allegiance to some football club or other? Evidence of a more rough-and-ready past that she was trying to leave behind her, perhaps?
And if that was true, more power to her, Jenny thought with a subtle nod of approval as she set about grinding some peppercorns to add to the water biscuits for the cheese platter.
People grew up and moved on, and what was wrong with that?
* * *
Half an hour later, the first of their weekend guests arrived: a middle-aged American couple, whose presence was clearly announced by a pair of loud, friendly voices that reached back even to the furthest recesses of the kitchen.
With a muttered, ‘Oh heck, here we go,’ Muriel abandoned Jenny to the root vegetables and shot through the door, where the cook heard her greeting them warmly.
‘Mr and Mrs Buckey, how are you? I’m so glad you could make it, and welcome to the Spindlewood Inn. I hope you had a good journey?’
Curious, Jenny moved to the door of the kitchen and glanced across the narrow corridor and into the open doorway beyond, where she could see a portion of the public bar.
‘Thank you, ma’am, we did. I’m Silas and this is my wife, Min.’ The man who was talking was in his mid-fifties and heavyset. Balding, with tufts of white hair over both his ears which matched his thick white eyebrows, he had a ferocious tan, and looked as if he should be wearing a Stetson. Rarely had Jenny seen someone who matched a stereotype so perfectly.
At barely five feet two, his wife had stylish blonde hair and hazel eyes. She was dressed in an eye-catching kaftan in various tones of aqua and blue, and had a large white bag over her shoulder that looked as if it should cost a sum that was well into three figures. Layers of beads and bangles tinkled musically whenever she moved.
‘We’ve come from London, so it took us only a couple hours on the train,’ this vision now confessed with a happy laugh. ‘I just love how everything is in such easy reach of everything else over here,’ she gushed, sounding even more American than her husband. ‘We’re going on to see Stratford-upon-Avon next week — I just adore Shakespeare — and that’ll take us hardly any time at all either! In the States, it takes ages to get anywhere — unless you fly all the time.’
Jenny, buoyed up by this display of such uncomplicated good cheer, turned back to cutting out her shortbread dough into pretty star-shaped designs with one of her favourite stainless-steel cutters.
‘Everything’s so exciting! We can’t wait to wear our costumes, can we, Si?’ Min Buckey’s voice rang out happily. ‘We’ve rented them for the weekend from this really great little place we found in Soho. Haven’t we, Si?’
‘Yes, sweetie.’
‘The man there assured me that they were made from authentic designs that were being worn when Jane Austen was living in Bath. Oh, we’re going to see Bath before going on to Stratford, aren’t we, Si?’
‘We sure are, sweetie.’
‘Do we wear them tonight? Our costumes, I mean?’
Jenny grinned, listening as Muriel told her that the dinner tonight did indeed start off with the first of the ‘scenes’ to be given by the am-dram players, and that of course, the Buckeys were welcome to wear their costumes if they wanted to.
‘Several members of the local historical society are also participating in the weekend, and are bound to be in costume too,’ Muriel informed them.
‘That’s great. I can’t wait for the plays to begin. I just adore a good love story, don’t I, Si? That’s why, when I saw this advertised, I said to Si, we’ve just got to go. To think, we get to be part of a real live tragedy!’
In the kitchen Jenny blinked, not quite sure what to make of that. Usually tragedy didn’t instil such gushing enthusiasm. Curious now, Jenny set the biscuits to bake in the oven and then picked up the booklet that Patsy had given her. Pulling up a kitchen chair, she sat down and began to read the brochure.
The Regency Extravaganza, it seemed, was intent on ‘celebrating’ and ‘recreating’ the ‘famous but tragic love story’ of the village’s local gentry.
According to ‘legend based on true facts,’ in the early 1800s the local lord of the manor, one Sir Hugh Rowland (whose family still lived in the impressive 1750s Caulcott House to this day), was married to the beautiful, much younger, Lady Hester Mainwaring. Hester’s father and Sir Hugh had arranged this match, which was to their mutual advantage, and involved the exchange of land and monies on Sir Mainwaring’s part, and some patents on the part of Sir Hugh. No doubt the match had been financially beneficial to all concerned, although it quickly became clear that the young and spirited Hester hadn’t taken kindly to being married off to a man her father’s age. And one, moreover, with something of a reputation as a roué and gambler. Many a hapless village maid, it seemed, had had youngsters tugging at their skirts who bore a marked resemblance to the lord of the manor.
From the start, so local gossip had it, the marriage was rocky and ill-fated, with things finally coming to a head when the lovely Lady Hester met and fell in love with the younger son of another local landowner, one Mr Reginald Truby. As a younger son, Reginald wasn’t even due to inherit his father’s land, and like most of his kind, was fated to make a choice of either the army or the clergy for a career. So although he was both dashing and handsome (naturally, Jenny mused cynically!) he would hardly have measured up as husband material for the regal Lady Hester, even if she hadn’t been so inconveniently already married.
Of course, the young lovers were discovered one da
rk and fateful day, and Sir Hugh, as the wronged and cuckolded husband, duly challenged the young dandy Reginald to a duel at dawn the following day.
Again Jenny paused in her perusal of this somewhat dubious account, and sighed heavily. Why did duels always have to be fought at dawn? And weren’t they made illegal at some point in history? (Jenny noted, with a smile, that in the weekend schedule, and for the purposes of the participants who would be witnessing this exciting re-enactment, ‘dawn’ had been shifted to a far more convenient ten o’clock in the morning.)
Not at all convinced of how true these ‘true facts’ were, Jenny nevertheless carried on reading, fascinated in spite of her amused scepticism.
According to local legend, Sir Hugh, as well as being a shocking ladies’ man and an unrepentant gambler, was also clearly a coward (or else he held firm and understandable ideas on the necessity of preserving his own skin, depending on your point of view). For, in a ‘dastardly act of wanton wickedness’ he arranged with his second, a similarly venal character by the name of Sir Francis Gordon, to tamper with Truby’s pistol before the start of the duel, thus rendering it useless.
Naturally, Sir Hugh survived the duel. Equally naturally, Truby did not.
However, Truby’s own second (presumably someone possessed of a less venal character, Jenny surmised with a snort) and a number of other impartial witnesses smelled a rat, and demanded to inspect both sets of pistols. After which Sir Hugh, no doubt very sensibly deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, promptly hopped back onto his horse and galloped off. And presumably at a fair old rate of knots, since although the rest of the outraged party chased him as far as Bristol, they singularly failed to catch up with him. Historians believed that he then boarded the first boat he could find. It was thereafter rumoured that he spent the rest of his nefarious days in (luxurious) disgrace somewhere near where Juan-les-Pins is situated nowadays.
