THE COUNTRY INN MYSTERY an absolutely gripping whodunit full of twists

by Faith Martin

  Just a quick glance in passing told her that they were talking earnestly and ferociously, heads bent close together, and neither of them looked happy. In fact, they were not so much talking as hissing at one another, and the Oxford don had a look of haunted fury about him, whilst his companion’s face was white with spite.

  Hastily passing them by (the travelling cook had no interest in listening to anyone’s private spats), she stood in the archway to the dining room, careful to stay in the shadows and not be a distraction as the ‘challenge to the duel’ scene was played out in front of her.

  With a sense of vague curiosity, if not much interest, Jenny watched the various performances — and decided that of the three of them, it was probably the country solicitor who was the most natural actor. Rachel depended far too heavily on her looks and that amazing voice of hers, and as a result sometimes came off as rather ‘hammy’ or stiff. Her one-time ex-lover, Jenny was amused to note, didn’t forget a single line, and as the young lover, Reginald, came across as a decent enough romantic lead. He certainly had the looks for it. But his performance was patchy, and it seemed to her that his mind wasn’t wholly on the job at hand.

  Whereas the country solicitor was obviously having a grand old time as the ‘big, bad Sir Hugh’ and played him with a mixture of gusto and glee that struck a chord with his audience.

  But at the end of the scene all three got an enthusiastic round of applause, and were quickly surrounded by well-wishers, eager to thank them and talk about the ‘real’ duel that had taken place centuries ago.

  Behind her, Jenny heard a sharp sound and turned to see that the red-headed woman had slammed down her glass on the table and was now thrusting back her chair, causing it to scrape loudly across the original oak floorboards. The next moment, she was storming off in high dudgeon.

  In his seat, Rory Gilchrist watched her go, his face grim.

  ‘Well, I think that went well,’ Jenny heard Vince say behind her, and quickly stepped aside as the happy guests and actors began the short trek from the dining room to descend on the bar en masse. And as they passed, Jenny was very pleased to note that a good percentage of the diners were commenting on the Regency feast as much as the amateur dramatics.

  ‘Who’d have thought boiled duck would be so delicious?’ pleased her, as did, ‘I have no idea what those Shrewsbury cakes were, but I wish I had the recipe.’

  Still basking in reflected glory, she made her way over to where Muriel was overseeing Mags and Babs as they began setting everything straight, ready for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  ‘Everyone seems to have enjoyed the food,’ Jenny said pointedly, just in case her employer had missed that vital fact.

  ‘Hmmm? Yes, yes, so they did,’ Muriel said vaguely, confirming the cook’s fears that her employer’s mind was obviously engaged elsewhere. ‘Well done, Jenny,’ she added as a distinct afterthought, and with that, began to gather up a tray of coffee cups. When she’d finished helping them out, Jenny made her way to the bar and patiently waited her turn at the back. When she’d finally caught the barmaid’s eye, she ordered a celebratory glass of white wine and retired to an unobtrusive spot by the fireplace — unlit now, given the late-summer heat wave — and sat down for a well-earned rest.

  Her feet were throbbing slightly since she’d been on them all day, but she felt, overall, a pleasant and relaxed glow settle over her. As she sipped her wine contentedly, her eyes roamed around the room. And the cook finally admitted to herself that, in spite of her bout of self-congratulation, she was beginning to feel distinctly nervous about the way this weekend seemed to be going.

  In the past, Jenny had had the misfortune of being present when something decidedly nasty and fatal had occurred. And for the last twenty-four hours or so, she had been trying to convince herself that lightning couldn’t possibly be about to strike again.

  But she was failing miserably.

  There were obvious tensions roiling around — some of them centring around Rachel, certainly, but others around Rory Gilchrist and his acrimonious lady friend. Then there were the wealthy Americans (and where there was money there was always trouble) — and she was even beginning to think that there was something going on with Vince. Solicitors, in Jenny’s view, could be magnates for all sorts of legal trouble.

  But that didn’t necessarily mean that anything bad was going to happen, she told herself firmly. You could take any diverse assembly of people, and human nature being what it was, you were bound to have friction.

  She had just been unlucky in the past when that friction had turned murderous, that was all. She was just being silly in feeling so uneasy.

  That being said, Jenny made the decision that come tomorrow morning, when everybody filed out to the nearby farmer’s field to watch the ‘duel,’ she would stay very firmly — not to mention safely — behind and in her kitchen.

  Jenny Starling was no mug!

  For the thought of a firearm — even a theatrical prop — being bandied about and fired was enough to give any would-be murderer ideas. And if it did, she wanted to be far away and well out of it all. That way, if anything untoward did occur during the duel, no police officer would have any recourse to interview her or look at her with suspicious eyes.

  Which would make a nice change.

  Having decided that to her satisfaction, Jenny continued to sip her wine and forced herself to relax.

  She noticed that Rory Gilchrist had buttonholed Vince again, and that the two of them were talking intently.

  Hastily, she turned her eyes away. None of her business, she reminded herself firmly. She took a last swallow of her wine and then headed determinedly towards the bar to deposit her glass.

  As she did so, she passed a small knot of people gathered to one side, and heard Rachel’s distinctive voice.

  ‘Wasn’t Matthew great, Ion?’

  Jenny sighed.

  ‘Yes — not that I’m the one to ask,’ she heard that lovely Welsh-valleys voice reply. ‘I don’t get to the theatre that often.’

  ‘Poor you. Matthew and I often used to go, didn’t we?’ Rachel purred. ‘Well we would, wouldn’t we, so that we could pick up pointers. Did I tell you, Matt, that I’m having a new portfolio done with that marvellous photographer Julius Bristow recommended?’

  ‘What, the chap in Soho? The one who does all the television stars? Isn’t he really expensive?’

  Jenny glanced across in time to see Rachel laugh and put a hand on Matthew’s arm.

  ‘Of course he is, but he’s well worth it. Ion would agree with me — he always said the camera loves me. Remember all the photos you took of me back in May?’ Rachel shot an amused glance at the Welshman, then back at her blond-haired companion. Not surprisingly the two jilted lovers were shooting daggers at each other.

  ‘I’m surprised you can afford it on your pay,’ Matthew said spitefully. ‘Still signing the lorries out and counting them back in are you?’ he added with a sweet smile.

  But instead of replying sharply, as she’d expected Rachel would do at this obvious attempt to put her down, Jenny noticed that her gaze had gone beyond Matthew’s shoulder and seemed to rest thoughtfully on someone else. And a bright smile suddenly lit her face.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind secretarial work,’ she said, her deep sexy voice rising in volume again. ‘It’s only temporary after all, until I get a part in the commercials again. My agent says he can really build on that. He confidently expects I’ll be getting small television parts before next Christmas. So I won’t be working in an office for long. Besides, there are compensations. All those lovely muscular lorry drivers, for example.’

  At this both men stiffened, and Jenny shook her head. Rachel was clearly a woman who liked playing with fire.

  ‘You know, not all of them are forty with beer guts and ridiculous tattoos. Some of them are quite buff,’ Rachel swept on with a knowing and enthusiastic smile. ‘Of course, some of them can be bad boys too. You know, a bit rough around the edges. Our b
oss, well, let’s just say that he doesn’t always do the proper background checks that he should. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of our drivers hadn’t been a guest of her Majesty at some point or other, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound safe,’ Ion said, sounding genuinely alarmed. ‘Rachel, have any of them tried anything on with you?’

  But Rachel laughed off this chivalrous concern. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me,’ she assured him loftily, ‘all us girls like the bad boys! They’re so sexy. But most of us have the good sense to keep them at arm’s length. Mind you, that doesn’t stop a girl from flirting with them now and then and learning all their little secrets. Men are so easy, aren’t they? They just love talking about themselves. I’ve never met a man yet who didn’t think he was fascinating.’

  And again, although she was looking in Matthew’s direction, Jenny had the feeling her voice was definitely directed elsewhere. The cook shifted her position slightly, trying to see who the actress had in mind.

  Behind Matthew, Jenny could see Silas and Min were standing close together, drinking out of bulbous glasses of brandy in amicable harmony. Just beyond them sat Rory and Vince, still in earnest conversation, although she rather thought that Vince was paying more attention to what Rachel was saying than his old friend. Jenny watched as Muriel offered them both a refill of their glasses and was abruptly waved away.

  ‘Anyway, I have more sense than to get involved with truckers, no matter how naughty and good-looking they are,’ Rachel said flippantly, and with a wave of dismissal, firmly changed the subject. ‘Now, which of you two boys wants to buy me one of those ruinously expensive cognacs Richard is so keen to push?’

  Jenny set off towards her kitchen to see for herself just what state Mags and Babs had left it in after all that washing up and clearing away. Women who liked to set men at each other’s throats, just for the fun of watching them fight over her, had never been amongst Jenny’s favourite people.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sunday lunch was served promptly at one o’clock and offered a traditional choice of roast beef, chicken, lamb or pork, all served with the obligatory accompaniment of roast potatoes, vegetables, stuffing and sauces. A variety of fruit crumbles and some rather more exotic options were on offer for dessert.

  Contrary to all her pessimistic fears, Jenny, feeling rather abashed, had quickly learned that nothing out of the ordinary — let alone dangerous — had transpired at the dawn duel. Unless you counted the fact that Matthew, who couldn’t ride very well, had nearly fallen off his horse when riding up to meet Sir Hugh under the old oak.

  The fake shot had been fired from the replica pistol without incident. And after Reginald Truby had been so foully done to death, and Sir Hugh had departed in disgrace, Matthew Greenslade had then got up from his prone position on the grass to take a bow, and everyone had returned to the inn in high spirits.

  Once again, everyone was dressed in costume as they enjoyed their meal, because right afterwards the final ‘suicide’ scene was to be enacted at the village pond. Or lake, rather, Jenny mentally corrected herself with a grin.

  And not wanting to be such a killjoy again, she was going to go with the others to watch Rachel’s big scene. It wasn’t very often, after all, that you got the chance to watch a Regency maiden kill herself to very dramatic effect on a lovely late summer’s afternoon in the Cotswolds, was it?

  So immediately after lunch was over, Jenny went upstairs to take a quick shower and change. It was as she was pulling on a light floral skirt in various rainbow hues that she heard angry raised voices coming through the thin partition wall, and felt a definite sense of déjà vu as she once again heard Rachel Norman’s voice. But then she felt a distinct jolt of surprise when, instead of hearing one of her fellow actors’ voices answering her back, she instead heard a distinctly American voice, also raised in anger.

  ‘You clearly can’t see that you’re beginning to make poor Si feel downright embarrassed,’ she heard Min Buckey say tightly. ‘What’s more, young lady, you’re starting to make a complete fool of yourself as well.’

  Jenny reached for the first blouse she could find and hastily began buttoning it up.

  ‘Really?’ she heard Rachel’s voice drawling sardonically in reply. ‘Well, I can’t say as I’ve seen him objecting much,’ she jeered. ‘In fact, from what he’s said, he seemed to imply that it was rather nice having someone take notice of him for a change. Been neglecting him a bit have we? I hear that can happen when you’ve been married for too long. The poor dears do so like to have their ego stroked, don’t they?’

  Jenny quickly slipped her feet into a pair of light tan sandals.

  ‘No I have not been neglecting him!’ the American matron screeched. ‘And I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. Si told me only last night that he thought you were coming on a bit strong. Poor baby was even blushing. You were hanging on to his arm like a limpet all last night. But it won’t do you any good you know. How dumb do you think we are, honey? A man has money, and he attracts the likes of you like wasps around a jam pot.’ Min laughed nastily. ‘Do you really think you’re the first young bit of stuff to try it on with Silas? But he’s wise to you. You girls are all alike — you see a middle-aged man and think he’s a fool, and that you can just . . .’

  Jenny grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Whilst her sympathies were fully with Min, she had no desire to hear any more. Not that she couldn’t help but hear the last few sentences of the American woman’s bitter words as she slipped out the door and headed off down the corridor.

  ‘. . . this time tomorrow, me and Si will be in Stratford-upon-Avon, having a high old time, and he’ll already have forgotten what you look like. So don’t think you’ll be wangling anything out of him, any little bits of jewellery as a parting gift or . . .’

  Jenny headed rapidly down the rather narrow upper set of stairs and smiled blandly at Vincent as he passed her coming up the other way. No doubt he was intent on going to the changing rooms to get out of his costume. She hesitated, wondering whether she should warn him that he might be about to walk in on a rather nasty little scene of quite a different kind, but decided it wasn’t her place.

  Besides, hopefully his appearance would bring the argument between the two women to a quick end.

  Back down in the bar, Jenny glanced at the clock and realised that it was nearly three o’clock already, and that everyone was gathered together, eager to follow the tragic Lady Hester as she made her final journey. As well as all the members of the historical society, Jenny gauged that a fair few of the villagers had also turned out, no doubt attracted by the Regency Extravaganza’s recent activities, and all keen to watch as a young woman dramatically drowned herself for love.

  Jenny saw Min sweep into the room a few minutes after she did, looking both flushed and satisfied. Clearly, she felt better for getting things off her impressive chest, and Jenny felt like applauding her. The American woman was again wearing her Victorian-era tea-gown, which sat on her plump figure most becomingly, and Jenny was glad to see that she hadn’t forced her figure into her corset this time.

  The cook saw Min’s husband go across and greet her, and clearly say something complimentary about her hair, for Min immediately reached up a hand to pat her elaborate wig and gave a laugh and a nod.

  Dressed in his own costume, he looked faintly ridiculous in his silks and cravat, but it was somehow touching to see that he was prepared to get into the spirit of the thing for her sake. For Jenny had no doubt that the whole dress-up aspect of the Regency weekend had been Min’s idea.

  Vince came back down a few minutes later, now dressed in casual grey slacks and a white shirt. Behind the bar, Richard — dressed in his ‘peasant’ smock outfit complete with the comical floppy hat that fell over his ears and forehead and must surely have severely limited his line of vision — was busy calling last orders and trying to push the last of his expensive spirits. By his side, Muriel poured a gl
ass of brandy for someone dressed as a country parson, then nodded to her husband as he passed behind her, leaving her to finish up serving the last of the stragglers alone. It wouldn’t do for them to be serving alcohol all day on a Sunday.

  Ion was patiently waiting for the show to begin, and was sitting over on one of the window seats, but there was no sign of his rival-in-love Matthew, Jenny noticed, with some relief. So at least there would be no more trouble there. But when she thought about it, it was obvious why the blond-haired Adonis was nowhere in sight. As the now dead Reginald Truby, his presence would have been definitely inappropriate and might have spoiled the effect for the rest of the audience. After all, Rachel was about to kill herself over his loss, and it would strain anyone’s ability to believe in her dramatic gesture if the man she was about to kill herself over was standing right there in the wings, watching her!

  Behind the bar, Richard once again took over from his wife and Muriel hurried out into the kitchen with a tray full of empty glasses. Jenny had a vague memory of Patsy telling her that the pub was usually closed on a Sunday — probably something to do with satisfying the clauses in Celia Grimmett’s conditions for the conversion of the dwelling into the inn. Naturally though, when the Sparkeys played host to weekend guests, that rule had to be suspended.

  A hush fell across the room, and Jenny looked up as a tall, imposing figure dressed uncompromisingly all in black swept through and into the lounge. She heard one or two small gasps of surprise and approval ripple around her, for the figure moving silently across the room was undeniably an eye-catching one — and definitely rather spooky.

  Jenny wasn’t sure if Regency women actually dressed in head-to-toe black when they were bereaved. Surely that had become popular in Queen Victoria’s time?

  But it seemed a rather petty quibble under the circumstances, for the dramatic figure in black was certainly something to see — not least because she wore a full black veil over her face. Her dress was made of black silk and lace and fell straight to the floor, obscuring the actress’s feet, making it appear as if she was gliding rather than walking. This, in turn, had the effect of making the audience feel as if she were already dead, and that they were already watching her ghost drift mournfully by.