by Faith Martin
Gracious, Jenny thought, as she turned the final lurid page. They didn’t half know how to go about things in days of yore!
Reading on determinedly to the end, it transpired, however, that things didn’t go so well for Lady Hester. Left inconsolable at the loss of her one true love, she promptly drowned herself, thus becoming immortalised forever.
Jenny sighed as she folded the brochure in half and dropped it into the bin under the sink. But she could see that it certainly made a good tale for guests, and would be sure to please the effervescent Min’s taste for gothic romance.
According to the itinerary, the Extravaganza also included a visit to Caulcott House and gardens, to see where the tragic Hester and the infamous Sir Hugh had once lived. And peppered throughout the three days, the am-dram players were going to regale the guests with scenes from their story, which included the famous duel (to take place in a nearby farmer’s field) and the suicide of the tragic heroine in the village pond. Which, Jenny noted with a grin, had now been relabelled — far more romantically — as a ‘lake.’ Which was understandable, she allowed magnanimously. After all, drowning yourself in the duck pond just didn’t have the same cachet, did it?
Jenny noticed that a visit to a local ‘eyecatcher’ (whatever that was) and a night-time ‘ghost walk’ (which was already an established entertainment during the tourist season) were also available on request.
And Jenny wished them the best of British luck!
* * *
At five o’clock, and with everything ticking over nicely in the kitchen, Jenny made her way to the top floor and down a narrow corridor to her rooms under the eaves, where she’d dumped her luggage. To her right was a small living space, with a large sofa set against the internal wall facing a skylight, which had been installed when the house had been converted into an inn. This window, as well as letting in much needed light, also gave her a view across the undeniably pretty village square, with a view of a Jubilee oak and the grey square turreted tower of a Norman church. This room also packed in a small kitchenette area where Jenny could at least make herself a late-night cup of cocoa without having to go downstairs to the kitchen.
Further down the narrow corridor, a door to the right opened out onto a bathroom — which wasn’t big enough to have an actual bath in it, but did at least hold a shower tall enough for Jenny to stand up in.
But it was the bedroom just opposite that was clearly going to give her the most trouble, she realised glumly as she stood in the doorway looking around. Here the roof sloped up into a deep inverted ‘V’ either side of the central space, leaving only the very middle of the room with an apex high enough for her to walk through without bumping her head. The bed, a rather frugal single, was placed against one wall. She tentatively stretched herself out full length on it, relieved to find that her feet didn’t actually hang over the bottom end of the mattress. And it was as she was contemplating the sloped ceiling that seemed to be hovering not far above her nose that she clearly heard, through the thin partition wall behind her, a voice.
A very angry voice.
‘Bloody hell, Vince, this is the absolute limit! How am I supposed to dress and do my make-up in here? There isn’t even room to swing the proverbial cat! I should have demanded one of the guest rooms. Bloody Matt, I’m going to literally kill the little sod when I see him! You know he was the one who put us up for this pitiful little gig? Didn’t I say it was too insignificant for us to bother with? And the fee is peanuts. But no, everyone else wanted to do it because it would be good practice for you all, and I let myself be persuaded. It would be fun, you said. Fun? Huh!’
Jenny, on the bed, closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten.
Clearly the ‘spare’ junk room at the very end of the attic had been allocated as a dressing room for the Caulcott Deeping Amateur Dramatic Society. And, just as clearly, she would have no peace whilst they were using it.
With a sigh, Jenny swung her legs over the bed, sat up and promptly bumped her head on the ceiling. She swore roundly, using a good mixture of Anglo-Saxon rhetoric, but was careful to do so under her breath. Then, with tight-lipped patience, she set about unpacking her suitcases, and stowed them away carefully under the bed.
As she stepped out into the corridor however, the woman’s voice in the end room once again piped up.
‘Pass me my make-up bag, would you, Vince? I’ve just bought that Rory Gee toner and I want to try it out. It’s ruinously expensive, of course, but so worth it, even for this penny-ante little show. It’s so much better for the skin than . . .’
Jenny, not wishing to hear anything more from the prima donna in the other room, beat a hasty retreat back to her kitchen.
Venison casserole had more class than to throw hissy fits.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Ricky, Malc’s just phoned,’ Muriel’s voice called in from the bar and carried through into the kitchen with ease. ‘He can’t do the ghost walk tonight, but I told him not to worry. With the first big scene from the am-dram people due at nine, he probably wouldn’t get any contenders anyway! He says he’ll come on Sunday night instead.’
In the kitchen, Jenny smiled across the table at Richard Sparkey. Somewhere in his mid-forties, the landlord of the Spindlewood Inn was a few inches shorter than Jenny, with thinning sandy hair and wide hazel eyes. A smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks made him look a bit like an overgrown schoolboy. He had just enough of a paunch to make him look cuddly, but still dressed well. With a rather big mouth that looked slightly goofy but appealing whenever he smiled — which was often — he looked every inch the picture of a welcoming landlord.
He’d come into the kitchen a few minutes ago to make himself a large sandwich, cheerfully stating that Jenny didn’t need to interrupt her preparations to see to his needs. Now he walked to the open door and called through the corridor to his wife. ‘Fine, but tell him the American couple definitely want to do something Sunday night, so he can’t back out. Min’s determined to see a spook of some kind before going back to the States, or so she says. And she’s managed to persuade quite a crowd from the historical society that it’ll be interesting as well.’
‘OK.’
He wandered back into the kitchen, eyeing their temporary cook thoughtfully as he continued to chew hungrily on his mammoth BLT. She was certainly big and beautiful and knew her stuff. ‘We like to encourage Malcolm and his spook-hunters whenever we can because after searching for spirits in the churchyard, they tend to come back here and buy spirits at the bar.’ He grinned at his own joke. ‘We lay in a special brandy and cognac that we swear helps steady the nerves in case of ghosts,’ he added shamelessly.
And naturally, Jenny mused, the cognac or brandy would be age-old and very expensive — and probably bought on an away-day booze cruise to Calais! Patsy was right: as well as pinching the pennies, her employers chased them with unremitting ferocity. Mind you, it was almost impossible to take offence with the ever-affable Richard.
‘Looks like our most distinguished guest has just arrived,’ Richard said suddenly, quickly swallowing the last mouthful of sandwich with an audible gulp and washing it down with a sip from his half-pint glass of cider shandy.
And from the direction of the bar Jenny could, indeed, clearly hear a well-educated masculine voice giving a low bass rumble of greeting to the landlady.
She raised one eyebrow in query towards the landlord.
‘Dr Rory Gilchrist — our don from Oxford,’ he supplied obligingly. ‘He tutors in modern history at St Bede’s College, so I suppose I can see why this Regency weekend thing might appeal to him. But I’d have thought it would have too much populist appeal to attract the likes of him. Unless he has a penchant for amateur dramatics himself,’ he added, his eyes gleaming in speculation. ‘You never know with that lot,’ he added, mock darkly.
‘It takes all sorts,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Perhaps he just likes to watch pretty actresses in high-waistline dresses?’
‘Don’t
we all?’ Richard sighed elaborately. ‘But seriously, I don’t quite understand why he’s bothered to book the room for all three nights. Oxford isn’t that far away is it? He could drive it easily.’
Jenny shrugged. ‘Perhaps he just wants a break from all those dreaming spires? All that academia must get tiring sometimes.’
Richard shrugged, obviously losing interest but listening absently as his wife soft-soaped their newest guest into signing the register and then making pointed noises about his suitcases. This none-too-subtle call to arms had Richard abandoning his drink with a sigh and going out to offer to take them upstairs.
Jenny, curious in spite of herself, moved to the door and glanced across the narrow corridor and through into the bar. There she saw a tall man just as he turned away from the bar and glanced through to the dining area, which was situated at the far end of the room. His face, in profile, did indeed look suitably patrician, with a clean-shaven chin and thin aesthetic nose, as befitted an erudite man of learning. His neatly cut hair was the very attractive colour of old gold just turning to silver, and when he turned back to thank Richard for taking his cases, Jenny could just see that his eyes were a very pale colour — maybe blue, grey or green.
Mostly definitely Patsy would have called him a silver fox! And definitely too good-looking to be single, Jenny rather thought. Ah well, she mused philosophically. Perhaps it was just as well that she was only here to cook!
And speaking of which, she returned without any real regret to her kitchen and began to grate a mixture of local cheeses to top her fish pie.
* * *
The dining room of the Spindlewood Inn led off from the main bar room through an open interior arch. And although it wasn’t Jenny’s place as the cook to check it (that was the responsibility of Muriel or the waitresses, two younger women hired from the village to help out in busy times), she always liked to see for herself where her food would be served. Just to satisfy herself that it would do her cooking justice.
So just before seven-thirty, she found herself standing in the middle of the room and looking around her with a sense of genuine pleasure. In keeping with the age of the inn, floorboards had been left exposed and had darkened with age to a shade of near black. Large, dark oak tables and matching chairs littered the space, lending the small and cosy room an ambience of comfortable solidity. This was enhanced by an ancient and venerable red flock wallpaper that had long since mellowed to a respectable rose colour, and a grandmother clock, standing against one now disused chimney breast, ticked away ponderously but pleasingly. At two tall sash windows long velvet curtains in dark cream were tied back with old-fashioned fringed bell ropes, giving a lovely elegant touch to the room and hinting at past decadence.
The tables themselves were covered with simple cream linen tablecloths and napkins, with maroon place mats and silver cruet sets, and in the centre, each table had a simple small cream vase full of mixed flowers picked straight from the gardens.
Jenny nodded. Yes — it would set off her food well.
She stepped through the archway and headed back past the bar. A young man was just approaching it from the opposite side, and when he spoke his voice, which most definitely had the tell-tale song of Wales in it, had her turning her head in instant admiration.
‘Hello there. Ion Dryfuss. I’m here for the Regency weekend? I have a single room booked, I think.’
The voice rose and fell with such a lilt that he sounded as if he was singing rather than merely talking, and Jenny, who had always loved the broad Welsh accent, found her steps slowing so that she might hear more of it.
Muriel beamed her usual fulsome welcome at the young stranger. Somewhere in his late twenties or maybe just about early thirties, Jenny judged, he was her own height, and dressed in much-washed, tight-fitting jeans and a plain white shirt. He had the elegant and lean body of a dancer, giving an impression of wiry strength beneath all that boneless fluidity.
‘Oh yes, Mr Dryfuss. Room 4. I do hope you’ll like it. It has a lovely view over the gardens.’ As Muriel reached behind her for his key, the young man turned, looking around and giving Jenny a glimpse of his triangular face. It had a strong pointed chin and cheekbones so sharp that she could have carved a nice slice of Parma ham on them. His hair was brown and curly, his eyes a matching deep, dark brown. And right now they were widening on her and taking her in with a slightly startled expression.
But Jenny was used to this — at nearly six feet in height, with extreme curves in all the right places, bountiful near-black hair and blue eyes that many men had described as ‘spectacular,’ she’d always enjoyed her fair share of masculine attention. Although hardly the slim, fair-haired vision of what most modern-day men assumed was their female idyll, the travelling cook had her own undeniable style. So far, though, Jenny had yet to find herself what her old granny would have called a proper ‘keeper.’
But in this particular case, whether or not the young Welshman could properly be listed amongst those who found her attractive was hard to say, as his expression gave little away. His slight smile suggested that he certainly appreciated her presence, but there was a distinct lack of interest in his gaze that made her wonder.
Gay or not gay, Jenny mused idly.
‘Is that all your luggage Mr Dryfuss?’ Muriel asked now, indicating the single dark green carrying case that was sitting at his feet.
‘Yes, I have a large satchel in my car with all my art supplies, but that can stay in the boot. And I haven’t bought a costume, I’m afraid. I forgot all about that aspect of it, idiot that I am, and then couldn’t find a costume shop at the last minute that had anything I liked the look of.’
‘Oh I’m sure that doesn’t matter,’ Muriel assured him with a bright smile. ‘It’s strictly optional. I’m sure you won’t be the only one in civvies!’
‘That’s a relief. I don’t want to be thought of as a spoilsport.’
Again, Jenny felt as if she could listen to him speak all day long. With that lovely Welsh-valleys sing-song accent, he could recite a list of plumbing supplies and make it sound divine.
‘So you’re an artist?’ Muriel made conversation pleasantly.
‘Hardly! But I do have a rather shameful hobby that I wouldn’t like to admit to in public,’ the young man teased her, leaning one bony elbow on the bar.
Playing along, Muriel leaned across and lowered her voice. ‘Go on. You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.’ And so saying, she did a cross-your-heart gesture with her right hand.
Up the bar a ways, an old man, who from the way he was dressed could only be Old Walter, leaned sideways a bit, his ancient ears clearly flapping.
‘All right. But make sure you keep it under your hat mind,’ Ion Dryfuss warned, lowering his voice dramatically. ‘Especially from your vicar. Men of the cloth especially don’t like the kinds of things I get up to.’
‘Oooh, now you’ve got me really worried,’ Muriel gushed. ‘What exactly do you do? Paint naked vicars?’
‘Worse!’ Ian leaned even closer and stage-whispered, ‘Brass rubbing.’ He moved back, wide-eyed and nodding emphatically.
Muriel burst out laughing.
Old Walter sighed, and took a disappointed sup from his pint of beer.
Jenny, unashamedly eavesdropping and grinning as well, reluctantly decided that she needed to get back to the kitchen for the final rush of preparation.
‘Well, I never heard the like,’ Muriel continued to josh, as Jenny scooted past the side entrance to the bar and across the corridor into her kitchen. ‘You might just have time for a quick drink before dinner if you hurry,’ she heard the landlady encourage him. ‘Hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘Oh I’m sure I will,’ the young Welshman predicted cheerfully.
* * *
In the kitchen, Jenny opened all the windows to allow the warm September breeze to dissipate some of the steam and heat. The waitresses had arrived an hour before, two women so alike that they could have been sisters, and had
introduced themselves as Mags and Babs.
Now Jenny set about overseeing the final hectic ten minutes or so before dinner was served. She was so busy making sure that everything was just right that she only gradually became aware that she was hearing voices coming in through the kitchen windows from the gardens outside.
She was adding aubergines to a red-hot griddle in order to complete the vegetarian option when she first noticed them; and only then because of the dramatic quality of the voices.
‘You vile strumpet! I rue the day you . . . What the hell is it? Ruined the family name?’ The voice was male, and rather apologetic.
‘How the hell should I know?’ The female voice that answered was definitely the same as the one Jenny had heard complaining about the size of the dressing room earlier. ‘I’ve got enough to do remembering my own lines, Vince! Look at the script, for Pete’s sake. No! Hold on a sec, I just want to record this on my tablet so I can check back on it later and make sure . . . OK. Got it. Now . . . How dare you, husband, traduce me when your own perverse humours and unnatural practices have so corrupted our most unhappy union.’
Jenny found herself ensnared by the voice. But this time it was not by a regional singsong accent, but by the sensual, husky and throbbing tonal quality of the female vocal chords. For whoever the petulant actress was, when she put her mind to it, her voice was unmistakably impressive. Smoky, with a deep but unforced timbre to it that you could almost feel reverberating in your chest cavity.
‘I have corrupted it? When it is you who has taken a lover?’ the unseen Vince shot back.
And Jenny was so looking forward to hearing the actress’s reply that she almost forgot to turn her aubergines over, so that both sides would show that beautiful grilled horizontal lines of scorched flesh that you only got when grilled properly.
‘Oh, do not speak Reginald’s name! Wait, let me play that bit back . . .’
Jenny sighed, and forcing her focus away from the rehearsing actors, rescued her aubergines and moved from the window to take the trays of mousse from the fridge. Mousse, in her opinion, shouldn’t be served totally cold and frigid straight from the fridge, since the flavours of fruit were never at their best when utterly chilled. They needed to be introduced to room temperature to bring out the tang of their flavours.
