by Faith Martin
Richard snorted. ‘Not her! Her mum and dad still live on one of the council estates in Gloucester. And she works as a secretary at some local haulage firm. Where, no doubt, she has all the tough lorry drivers wrapped around her little finger,’ he predicted bitterly. He shook his head as he glowered across at the actress. ‘Those Americans had better watch out for her. She’ll cause trouble there, you mark my words!’
And so saying, he poured her a small glass of sherry and then moved off down the bar, to where Old Walter was tapping his empty beer glass significantly.
Jenny, surprised by the unexpected bitterness of Richard’s comments, began to feel the first stirrings of uneasiness. It was definitely beginning to feel as if there were some nasty undercurrents swirling at the Spindlewood Inn this weekend. And wanting no part in them, Jenny grabbed her glass of sherry and was about to turn back to her kitchen when Dr Gilchrist, coming past her, almost jogged her arm.
Luckily, Jenny was adept at saving her ingredients, and managed to keep her sherry in the glass.
‘Oh I’m so sorry,’ the Oxford don apologised, noticing her deft avoidance tactics. ‘I’m not usually that clumsy.’
‘It’s OK,’ Jenny said. Then, catching him eyeing her glass of sherry with a look of surprise, forced herself to laugh. ‘Don’t worry — I’m not hitting the hard stuff early. It’s for cooking purposes only, I swear. I’m the cook,’ she introduced herself.
‘So we have you to thank for all the wonderful food?’
Jenny beamed.
‘I’m really looking forward to tonight’s feast,’ the Oxford man swept on. ‘Truth is, it’s one of the main reasons why I joined up for this shindig. The food at High Table is all well and good, but occasionally a man needs to stretch his culinary repertoire a bit. And the Regency banquet caught my eye. I’m not really into all the melodrama, personally,’ he swept a hand around, indicating the costumed theatricals around him. ‘But I thought I might enjoy the food, and perhaps write an article for one of the academic journals that I write for about the local eyecatcher.’
Jenny was about to ask him exactly what that was, when he added quickly, ‘Oh, there’s Vince. Sorry, but I need a word with him. Do excuse me.’ And before she could so much as utter another word, he darted away.
Jenny noticed that the Welshman, Ion Dryfuss, who had been talking to the solicitor, moved aside to make way for him, and went over to a window seat instead, where he sat down moodily. And once again, he began watching Rachel Norman intently.
And fighting back yet another little shiver of foreboding at the dark emotion that was clearly apparent on his triangular-shaped and arresting face, Jenny escaped gratefully back to the sanctuary of her kitchen.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was lovely to hear the inn finally fall silent for a while as everyone set out to enjoy his or her various excursions. With only Old Walter left behind, propping up the bar in his usual place, and with the occasional, non-Regency customer coming in for drinks and lunch, Jenny was left in relative peace.
Muriel, along with Mags and Babs, was on hand to oversee the few lunch orders they received, leaving her free to concentrate on her masterpiece. Although she’d spoken with confidence about her boiled duck dish, Jenny had to admit to feeling a little trepidation at trying out a new recipe without having had the luxury of doing a trial run first.
Outside, it was another glorious day. And at three o’clock, with everything ticking over nicely, she took a short break from the hot kitchen and went through to the bar to thirstily order a large lemon and lime with lots of ice from Richard.
As she accepted the glass, tinkling melodiously with ice cubes, she ignored Old Walter — who was trying to catch her eye — and instead took her drink to one of the comfortable padded window seats. As she settled herself down however, she noticed that a curious-looking lump of white material had been tossed casually on the other end of the seat. It seemed to be made of silk, a material known for its sinuous pliability, and yet it looked, paradoxically, rather rigid. Intrigued, Jenny reached across and fingered it, and then saw the rows of eyelets and strings, ribbed and rigid panels, and quickly realised what it was.
An old-fashioned corset!
For a moment, as the Junoesque cook examined it thoughtfully, she could only reflect that she was glad she hadn’t been born in an era when a woman with her curves would have been required to wear such an instrument of torture.
She supposed, idly, that the corset must belong to Rachel and was probably a part of her costume, and that the actress must have left it here and then forgotten about it — perhaps after being distracted by one of her many suitors.
But then, just as quickly, she dismissed the idea. Rachel was naturally slender, and Jenny was sure — the few times that she’d seen the actress in costume — that she hadn’t been wearing a garment like this.
Then who . . . Jenny sighed. Of course — it had to belong to Min. Her costume, being far more Victorian in appearance, would definitely benefit from a garment like this. And, Jenny supposed with a little pang of sympathy mixed with chagrin, that the American woman might, given the advent of Rachel on the scene, now be feeling just a little bit insecure about her more middle-aged figure. Although not fat, she certainly didn’t possess a figure as svelte as that of the actress.
With a sad little sigh, she turned her attention away from the corset and sipped her cold drink with pleasure, glancing around absently as she did so. The inn really was a lovely place, she thought, and she could well understand why Richard and Muriel had coveted it, and had been willing to take on such an unusual mortgage agreement in order to own it.
As she glanced out the window and observed the attractive village square, Ion Dryfuss walked in through the open door, looking cool and elegant in black trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt. He was carrying a large artist’s folder under his arm in which, she supposed, he’d placed his latest efforts at brass rubbing.
He ordered a lager at the bar, spotted her, visibly hesitated for a moment or two, and then, realising that ignoring her now might appear rude, smiled and sat down at the table next to her. ‘Hello. Are you here for the Regency do?’ he asked conversationally.
‘Only to cook for it,’ Jenny admitted, and introduced herself. Then she nodded at the portfolio. ‘Brass rubbings? I overheard you talking about them to Muriel when you first arrived,’ she explained, when he shot her a surprised look. ‘Can I see them?’ Not that she was particularly interested in such an esoteric activity, but the handsome and rather enigmatic young man intrigued her. And besides, she could listen to his sing-song Welsh-valleys voice all day long!
‘If you like,’ he offered with a shrug, and passed the folder over. ‘There are some nice pieces from the old crusader’s sarcophagus in the local church here.’
‘Oh. Are they the ones that usually have an effigy of a little faithful dog at their feet?’ she asked, turning over the pages of black crayon markings.
‘Usually,’ Ion laughed. Then suddenly he tensed as Jenny turned a page and saw not a brass rubbing at all, but a proper sketch. Drawn freehand and obviously the work of a talented amateur, it showed a woman in side profile, with her hair blowing beguilingly in the wind.
It was the face of Rachel Norman.
Beside her, Jenny heard him draw in his breath sharply, and in her peripheral vision could tell that he’d gone rigid and slightly pale.
‘That’s rather a good likeness,’ Jenny said casually, pretending not to notice her companion’s obvious unhappiness over the fact that she’d seen it. Clearly, he’d forgotten that it was in the folder. ‘She’s rather lovely, isn’t she?’ Jenny added nonchalantly.
‘Er . . . yes. We met earlier this summer. She was on holiday in North Wales and I was working in a bar on the esplanade,’ he offered a shade unwillingly.
Jenny smiled. ‘That’s nice,’ she said vaguely. And much to his relief, closed the folder and handed it back to him. ‘Well, I’ve got to get back to the kitchen
. An authentic Regency feast won’t cook itself.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,’ Ion predicted chivalrously, looking almost comically relieved that she’d paid so little attention to his etchings. ‘The food’s been smashing so far,’ he flattered her eagerly.
Jenny beamed at the compliment, and went back to the kitchen. But as she did so, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d felt so rattled. Clearly Ion and Rachel had had a summer fling earlier in the year, a holiday romance, which at last put paid to any lingering question hovering over the foxy-faced Welshman’s sexuality.
But presumably the fling had then gone the way of all summer romances, and hadn’t survived. As far as it went, the story was sad, perhaps, but all rather boringly normal nevertheless.
But why had he then followed her back to her home territory, here in the Cotswolds? Didn’t that smack a little of stalking? Presumably Rachel must have noticed his presence — and yet she couldn’t recall seeing the actress actually talking to him, or even acknowledging his presence. But that meant nothing — for all Jenny knew, they could have got together anywhere, anytime, and had any number of intimate conversations.
And considering that Rachel had, at some point, also been involved with that good-looking, fair-haired Adonis, Matthew (to the extent, it would seem, of ruining his engagement to another woman), she doubted that Ion could be feeling very happy right now. For he could hardly have failed to see all the pointers indicating that Rachel was searching for yet another romance.
Richard Sparkey couldn’t have been the only one aware of her pursuit of the rich American, when he’d so grimly predicted that Rachel was about to upset another long-standing relationship.
And given her new employer’s bitterness on the subject of Rachel, it made her wonder if perhaps, at some point, Rachel might not have caused some friction in the Sparkeys’ own marriage?
Shaking her head — and reminding herself yet again that such speculation was none of her business — Jenny went to make sure the trifles were behaving themselves and setting properly. Naturally, they were.
But should she have gone with the ‘fricandeau of veal’ or the ‘curry of rabbit’ instead of the boiled duck?
* * *
By six o’clock that evening, all the guests were back from their various sightseeing trips, and were chatting happily over drinks at the bar.
Listening with only half an ear to their chatter as it wafted through the door, Jenny absently learned that Min had remained thankfully unmolested by spiders whilst visiting the country house and gardens, Vince and Rory Gilchrist had been much taken with the eyecatcher (still a mystery to Jenny), and the visit to the graves of the original Lady Hester and Reginald Truby had been variously touching, sad, and romantic.
Jenny, frantically making sure that every sauce was reducing properly, that the salad was ready to be constructed, and that everything that needed to be chilled was being chilled, paid scant attention to any of it.
Muriel hurried in and out, anxiously checking on her progress in between making sure that the dining room was a mass of arranged flowers and all the best ‘bib and tucker’ was on display, giving the cosy room as much of an air of grandeur as possible.
In short, it was organised chaos.
‘I only hope they all opt for the more expensive wines,’ she heard the landlady muttering under her breath as she shot past Jenny with a basket full of their best silver.
Jenny grinned and hoped they did too — if not for quite the same reason. Muriel might want to make a huge profit on the wine, but Jenny only wanted the best drinks possible to complement all this magnificent food that she’d so lovingly slaved over all day!
* * *
Dinner was due to start at seven-thirty, and would be a full six courses — modest by Regency standards, but far more manageable for twenty-first-century tastes. With a quarter of an hour to go, Mags and Babs were girding their collective loins in the kitchen, whilst Jenny, now that the moment of truth was upon her, felt curiously calm.
The duck was going to be wonderful.
Her salads, heaped on blue-and-white platters, looked spectacular.
Her trifles and syllabub were going to be a sensation.
She was standing in the open doorway of the kitchen, benevolently taking in the mass of happy, expectant and chattering people crammed into the bar beyond. Once again, everyone who had a costume was dressed in all their bedazzling glory. Behind the bar, Richard was encouraging guests to try the brandy and cognac and an aged Marsala that he’d ‘ordered in, special.’ Old Walter, eyes agog at all the fuss and to-do, watched the spectacle happily, hopeful that someone would offer to buy him an expensive ‘short’ too.
Nearest to her stood Rachel, dressed now in a beautiful pearl-grey silk ensemble topped with an ostrich-feather hair ornament, looking every inch as if she should be in a ballroom in Bath somewhere in the year 1814, fighting off various young ‘bucks’ who wanted to fill up her dance card. Beside her, her ‘husband’ Sir Hugh stood sipping appreciatively on one of Richard’s cognacs.
‘Nervous?’ Vince asked her.
Rachel laughed and shook her head. ‘Of course not. Mind you, Matthew’s looking a bit green around the gills. I hope he’s learned his lines properly this time.’
Jenny looked, and sure enough, saw that the fair-haired Adonis, now dressed like a Regency Beau Brummell in cream silk trousers, ornately embroidered silver-and-gold waistcoat and green velvet jacket, did look rather nervous.
‘He better have,’ the country solicitor said ominously. ‘After fluffing his lines in An Inspector Calls last year, the committee will downgrade him to non-speaking parts otherwise,’ he predicted ominously.
But clearly Rachel wasn’t interested in the woes of her fellow am-dram actors. ‘Vince, you’re a solicitor, right,’ she said, her husky voice rising in volume a notch or two.
‘Last time I looked, yes,’ the older man agreed mockingly.
‘So if you know somebody’s been doing something . . . naughty . . . can you get in trouble if you don’t tell the police?’ she asked.
At this, Jenny looked at her sharply, as did her companion, and, Jenny noticed, a rather good-looking woman sitting a little further down the bar. In her early forties, she wasn’t dressed in costume but a rather nice trouser suit in navy blue, which suited her pale complexion, red hair and dark blue eyes.
Jenny noticed that this intriguing question had also caught the ear of Richard, who as usual was serving behind the bar and had now begun moving slowly their way, his ears no doubt straining. And who could blame him? The question had definitely been a conversation-stopper.
And Rachel was making no effort to keep her voice down.
Vince began to look slightly concerned. ‘If you’re aware of a crime then it’s your duty to report it to the police, yes,’ he said firmly — as any good, respectable solicitor might. ‘But you’d need to consider the circumstances most carefully,’ he then temporised. Which again, was typical of a solicitor. ‘You’d have to be sure of your grounds, if making a specific accusation against someone. The laws of slander and libel aren’t to be taken lightly. But if you have knowledge of a crime then yes, you need to report it.’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Rachel said. Then sighed. ‘I suppose you can be had up for being an accessory or something if you don’t, can’t you? Accessory after the fact, or whatever they call it?’
‘That is the case if you’re aware a crime has been committed and don’t report it,’ Vince corrected her. ‘If you’re aware that a crime is going to occur and don’t report it, then you’re an accessory before the fact. Either way, there can be severe penalties. It depends what it is you know, and what the crime is. Look, Rachel,’ Vince said sharply, ‘if you’re in any doubt about this, you need to do something about it. I can advise you if you want to come and see me in my office. I can also accompany you when you speak to the police if you think you might need legal representation.’
At this point, Rachel smiled
and waved a hand vaguely in the air. ‘Oh no, Vince, I don’t think I’ll need to take you up on that. Anyway, it was more of a rhetorical question,’ she laughed lightly. ‘It’s probably nothing anyway. I think it’s just easier to say nothing . . . Just forget I said anything. It’s such a piffling thing anyway — probably not even a crime as such at all, so it’s hardly worth the effort,’ she rattled on with a dismissive shrug.
‘Now look, Rachel . . .’
‘Vince, honestly, it’s nothing,’ she flicked a hand in the air and gave him an impish smile. ‘I promise! Now, let’s concentrate on the matter at hand shall we? Are you ready to go and slap the old glove in Matthew’s face and challenge him to a duel?’
Vince clearly wanted to ask her more about her ‘hypothetical’ question, but didn’t get the chance. For as she began to make her way into the middle of the room, she began delivering her opening lines to Reginald Truby, thus indicating to their audience that the next performance was about to begin.
After that everyone would dine, and after that there’d be a final confrontation scene between the star-crossed lovers and the angry husband, which would culminate in the duel tomorrow morning.
Jenny, mindful that she needed to start overseeing the plating up of the starters and soups, dashed back into the kitchen. And for the next few hours, she promptly forgot about everything but ensuring that every plate that left her kitchen was perfection.
* * *
Jenny was feeling a shade frazzled some three hours later, when she decided to venture into the dining room only as the final scene of the evening was being played out, and all her wonderful Regency recipes had now been safely served and consumed. As she passed from her kitchen across the narrow corridor and into the bar, she noticed that Dr Gilchrist, alone in the assembly, had decided to forgo watching the dramatics. Instead, he was seated at a small table for two tucked away in a corner of the bar lounge, talking to the fetching redhead in the trouser suit that Jenny had noticed earlier.
