Birthdays Can Be Murder

by Joyce Cato

  As they headed to the dining room, Justin turned back and winked at Jenny over his shoulder. The cook shook her head at him angrily, her lips grimly tight. Torn between her intense desire to return to the safety of the kitchen, and her unremitting conscience, which demanded that she do something, she stood there wavering.

  The dining room was now almost full, but she simply couldn’t go in there. A cook in the dining room was just asking for trouble. Instead she walked to the ballroom, where only a few guests remained, and she hastily stood to one side as they passed, glancing at her curiously. She was not dressed as a party guest, nor was she in a caterer’s uniform. All the guests were strangers to her, and Jenny ignored them, sure that the threat, whatever it was, did not come from their quarter.

  Finally, only Alicia and an older couple remained, Alicia clearly trying to chivvy them towards the door. She glanced up and saw Jenny, and a peculiar expression crossed her face.

  ‘Everything’s all right in the kitchens, Miss Greer,’ the cook reassured her quickly, and Alicia laughed.

  ‘See, Moira? Even the cook has come up to try and hurry you along. Frank, you’re going to love this banquet. Miss Starling here is one of the best cooks in the country.’

  ‘As right?’ Frank leered at her, obviously already well away on the wine. No wonder Alicia was having trouble with them. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world’ – he burped – ‘in that case.’

  Jenny stepped aside to let them pass, and Alicia paused beside her, watching the couple sway their way into the dining room. ‘Is there something wrong, Miss Starling?’ Alicia asked, turning to her. She looked spectacular in her blue dress and borrowed sapphires – young, vibrant, alive and beautiful.

  Jenny sighed and shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Well, then, I’ll go and join the others and announce dinner is served. Everything set?’

  ‘Everything’s set,’ Jenny echoed, and hoped she was right. It might be chaos down in the kitchen by now for all she knew. As she watched Alicia sail into the dining room, queen of the evening, Jenny had never felt more oddly depressed. Perhaps she should see a doctor. Perhaps her hormones were out of whack or something.

  She was about to return to the kitchen where she belonged when a figure stepped through the French windows and into the ballroom. He was a tall man, lean and dark, and aimlessly began to wander around, looking at the paintings and ornaments, then pausing beside a buffet table to take a nibble. Then the man turned her way, spotted her, and his face became as still as rock. He looked almost unreal for a moment. She felt a purely instinctive desire to run, and quickly quashed it. She raised her chin and one eyebrow, stiffened her back and her resolve and waited.

  ‘Hello. Looks like I’m not the only late arrival around here. Oh, you can’t be a guest, can you?’ he added, as he ran his eyes over her in a thorough inspection, noting more her luscious curves and beautiful eyes then her plain summer dress. ‘I can’t see Alicia allowing the competition somehow.’

  ‘I’m the cook,’ Jenny said stiffly. ‘If you’re dining, you’re a little late. Miss Greer has just gone in.’

  ‘I’m not.’ His lips twisted in what, Jenny supposed, was meant to be a smile. ‘And I doubt, very much, if Alicia even knows I’m here.’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a fancily engraved silver lighter. ‘Smoke?’

  Jenny reared back. ‘Hell, no! They ruin the tastebuds.’ He might have been offering her opium, for all the shocked disdain her tone carried. The man looked at her in surprise, and twisted his lips again. Then his eyes seemed to narrow, although she could have sworn none of his facial muscles actually moved. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ the stranger said matter-of-factly, and Jenny felt her heart jump.

  ‘I don’t think so. I would have remembered you had we met.’

  ‘I didn’t say we’d met,’ the stranger corrected softly. ‘Only that I’d seen you before. I never forget a face.’ The man paused, considering, and Jenny began to have difficulty breathing. ‘Ever had your picture in the papers?’

  ‘Do you have an invitation?’ she asked coldly, neither denying nor confirming his question.

  ‘You mean a written one? One of those elegant square bits of paper with gold italics on it? My name, and everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  Jenny watched him light the cigarette. He was, she suddenly realized, very attractive, in a strange and dangerous sort of way.

  ‘I think you should leave,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could always chuck me out,’ the man agreed. ‘You’re a veritable Titan. Who knows, you might even manage it.’

  ‘Yes – I just might,’ she agreed pleasantly.

  Behind her, a door opened and Georges appeared from the kitchen, carrying aloft a lovely Spode soup tureen. Behind him a line of waiters and waitresses marched past, several of the men carrying matching tureens. Georges spotted her but never even paused in his stride, and Jenny almost wilted in relief. She could trust the fake Frenchman to keep things on track.

  When she looked back, the ballroom was empty. Jenny blinked and dragged in a breath. That was quick! The man must have moved like greased lightning. No doubt the gatecrasher, once caught, had thought better of it.

  Jenny looked once more around the deserted ballroom, then stepped back and closed the doors. Then she glanced through the open dining-room door, watching the waiters and waitresses expertly ladling out the soup, Georges pouring from a great height with deft ease. She stayed only long enough to watch the first few diners take their first sip and make happy noises over its texture, taste and general excellence, and then turned back for the kitchen and sanctuary.

  Martha looked up as she walked down the few steps and stopped in the middle of the now-deserted kitchen. The resident cook opened her mouth, no doubt to say something snide, but the look on Jenny’s face stopped her. Instead, she nodded to the oven. ‘Better check them lobster thingummies,’ she reminded, almost kindly, and Jenny nodded absently.

  The cat, from the top shelf of the condiment cupboard, watched her take the lobster dishes from the oven and leave them to cool on the worktops. The cat licked his whiskers and waited.

  ‘Did anyone say anything?’ Martha asked, and Jenny absently shook her head. ‘Ah well. Perhaps it’s just as well.’

  Jenny, even more absently, nodded. She saw again Justin’s cheeky wink over his shoulder. The strange look on Alicia’s face. She saw, in her mind’s eye, Tom Banks putting the paper knife in his pocket. And she recalled the stranger, asking if she’d ever been in the papers.

  ‘I just feel so damned unsettled,’ Jenny muttered out loud, more to explain her own behaviour to herself than anything else.

  ‘Don’t we all, love,’ Martha said with feeling. ‘This business with Jimmy Speight has left me feeling as if everything’s changed somehow. I dunno, it feels as if the whole house is different. I’m beginning to think it was a bad day when the Speights moved into Rousham Green. That I am.’

  The cook frowned. ‘You mean they aren’t locals?’

  Martha sniffed. ‘That they’re not. Moved down here from somewhere in the west about four years ago. Wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t Welsh,’ she added gloomily.

  Jenny frowned again. Four years ago. Now where had she heard that before? Somebody else had done something four years ago too. But she just couldn’t quite seem to remember – oh yes. Daphne had come to The Beeches four years ago too. Now that …

  Her thoughts broke off as, out of the corner of one eye, she saw the cat bunch his muscles, ready to make his move on the lobster morsels. Just as he leapt, she deftly lifted the tray away and the stunned feline found himself landing on an empty worktop. There he stared at her with dumbfounded eyes.

  ‘You’ve got to be quicker than that, my good moggy,’ Jenny informed him gently, and actually gave him a chuck under the chin. But even as she str
oked the astonished feline, Jenny had the uncanny feeling that someone out there in the house, somewhere, somehow, had been very much quicker off the mark than even Jenny Starling, supercook. And that before long, everyone was going to know about it.

  Nine

  JENNY WAS FEELING pretty stupid. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to, and it was the only thing that had the tendency to make her gush. Mercifully aware of this foible, however, she now firmly clamped her lips together as Georges and his army departed with the final course.

  It was nearly eight o’clock, and all was well. Nobody had complained about the meat being undercooked. Nobody had choked to death on her soup. Everyone had roundly admired her seafood dishes. Disaster had never seemed so far away.

  So, she’d made a fool of herself for nothing. She’d just have to think of it as one of life’s painful little lessons and chalk it up to experience. Unless, of course, somebody keeled over during the dessert, while gasping out curses on the cook’s head.

  But nobody did. Fifteen minutes later, Georges came back with empty plates and a beaming face. ‘Ees a triumph, Mademoiselle Starling. Never ’ave I heard the guests rave so about the food.’

  Martha harrumphed loudly, and her cat yowled. Georges quickly stacked the dishes, noting with stunned surprise that the previous dirty plates were washed and dried and ready to be packed away. He glanced at Martha, who glowered at him, and slightly shook his head. No, definitely not that one. Then he turned to Jenny, and nodded. He’d been right the first time. A real professional. That momentary madness earlier must have been just nerves. And Georges could allow that. All great creative artistes were allowed nerves.

  ‘The coffee ees ready?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jenny said, and whipped out a plate of crackers, biscuits and wafers, freshly cooked and as crumbly as good soil after an experienced gardener had been around it. Georges let himself have a crafty sniff as he held a tray aloft. Bliss.

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ Martha said gloomily. She’d been hoping the fancy cook would fall flat on her face all day.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ Jenny acknowledged, almost sympathizing with her.

  ‘Mr Greer would like the staff to put in a brief appearance at the table,’ Chase announced from the top of the three steps that led down into the kitchen, stiff-backed and so dignified he almost crackled. Martha got to her feet quickly. ‘I’m all for that, Mr Chase,’ she said, determined that no one must forget that the resident cook had played her part (even if she hadn’t) and that she hadn’t taken offence at being so rudely usurped by a stranger in her kitchen (even if she had).

  Jenny followed them out.

  The dining room was replete with satisfied diners. At the head of the table, Mark Greer rose formally and tapped his spoon against his glass. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for coming’ – there were muted sounds and rumbles of acknowledgement – ‘and trust that you’ve all had a good time. I’d like to thank our caterer, Miss Jenny Starling, for producing such a truly wonderful and memorable meal.’ He paused and raised his glass to her, and Jenny beamed as everyone looked her way and applauded. ‘I’d also like to thank our own resident cook, Martha, and all the catering staff, who served us so well. The staff.’

  Mark and the guests raised their glasses in a toast, then Chase led them all out again, probably miffed at not having been given a mention. Jenny caught Tom Banks staring at her, and she met his eyes briefly. He looked away first. Out in the hall once more, she could hear the band revving up in the garden, and the sound of a hundred voices raised in conversation. Large Chinese lanterns were now being lit out in the gardens, and would look lovely once true darkness had fallen.

  Again, she felt stupid. Everything was going swimmingly. There was not a hitch in sight.

  Vera was sitting in the corner chair, dozing. The last of the dishes were stacked away, and a waiter came in to collect more champagne and the special vintage for the toast to the birthday boy and girl. It was nearly midnight.

  Jenny watched Martha tuck into a piece of lemon tart that Chase had brought down from the buffet tables, and smiled.

  She glanced once more at the clock ticking away on the wall, and thought of tomorrow, when she would be off. There was a hotel in Taunton that she knew would always welcome her with open arms. There was, if it came to it, a hotel in practically every county in England that would take her on, on the spot, should she show up on their doorstep. Or she could go north – Edinburgh was nice, this time of the year.

  The kitchen door burst open so quickly that it slammed against the wall and ricocheted back. Vera leapt out of her chair, and Martha’s last few bites of tart shot out of her spoon. The door, being pushed open for the second time, revealed only Chase.

  But a vastly different Chase from the one Jenny knew. His eyes were huge, like those of an owl, and all colour had fled from his face. His lips moved, but no sound came out, and he staggered down the steps as if he were drunk.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ Martha cried. If Chase were in such a state then the world must be coming to an end, at the very least, she was clearly thinking. Jenny’s heart also pounded. Once again that feeling of disaster pounced on her, chilling her blood and mocking her previous relaxation.

  ‘They’re dead,’ Chase finally managed to croak.

  ‘What?’ Martha gasped. Her trembling lips made her next words almost inaudible. She looked ashen. ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘The twins! Justin and Alicia,’ Chase said wretchedly. ‘They’re dead.’

  Jenny groped her way to the kitchen chair and sat down heavily. In front of her was a half-empty bottle of champagne that Martha had opened and guzzled, glaring at the upstart cook as she’d done so, and daring her to object. Jenny, of course, hadn’t. Now she reached for an empty glass and poured herself a good dollop. If ever she’d needed a drink, now was it.

  Jenny took a hefty gulp.

  ‘They’re saying it was the champagne,’ Chase carried on, totally stripped of all his authority and suddenly appearing heartrenderingly human. ‘They say it was poisoned. At least, that’s what young Dr Bannister thinks.’

  Jenny promptly sprayed the contents of her mouth towards the sink. Some of it actually reached. The cat, getting some of the fallout, flattened himself against the tiles and growled.

  All three heads turned her way, their eyes straying to the champagne she was holding. Jenny hastily put the glass down and pushed the chair away from the table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and staring at the bottle of finest Moët and Chandon as if it was a spitting cobra, getting ready to strike. For a second or two nobody spoke. Then Martha began to sob. The sight of the usually stalwart cook, so overwrought, was too much for Vera, who began to shake and tremble like a leaf in a hurricane.

  Chase merely stood there, looking blankly at the wall.

  Jenny slowly rose, and found somebody had transplanted her kneecaps with jelly. She nevertheless managed to walk to the steps, and emerged into a hall that was eerily silent. The doors to the ballroom stood open, and from the study she could hear somebody calling for an ambulance. As she crossed the floor, the phone was put down and picked up again, and the same voice, young, harried but admirably firm, called for the police.

  Jenny pushed open the doors, which were already ajar, and looked around her. It was an eerie, almost unbelievable scene. A hundred people stood about in total silence. Some were clinging to the walls, some of the women were weeping. Men looked at each other, and around, then down at their feet. The atmosphere was leaden. In bizarre contrast, gaily coloured balloons swayed from the ceiling, and party streamers, all the bright colours of the rainbow, festooned the walls, draped over the tables and lay on the floor.

  The only signs of movement came from one corner where a small semicircle of stout-hearted or ghoulish souls had gathered.

  Jenny found herself walking towards them, compelled by some force she couldn’t have named if offered a million pounds. People parted easily to let
her pass. Being so tall, Jenny could clearly see between the shoulders of two male guests the sight that had changed the ballroom from one of gaiety to tragedy.

  Mark and Sherri Greer stood to one side, their hands clinging tightly together as they stared, white-faced and too shocked to weep, at the sight of their children, lying stricken on the floor.

  Justin lay on his back, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing. His hands were clenched into fists, but whether it was pain, rage or fear that had clenched them in those final moments of life, Jenny would never know. His legs were bent, his head thrown right back. His mouth was open, and just a trace of saliva gleamed on his chin. He’d obviously had some kind of convulsion before dying.

  It seemed to Jenny, still reeling under the influence of shock, that it was a very inappropriate way for someone of Justin’s elegance and beauty to die, and she felt a sudden and overwhelmingly fierce rush of rage wash over her.

  She remembered him alive, winking cheekily at her over his shoulder as he led his just-jilted ladyfriend away, and she too wanted to weep. Instead she took a deep breath and straightened her back, then lifted her eyes from the dead man and searched out Babs Walker in the crowd.

  She was standing not far away, clinging to a broad shoulder and staring at her dead lover with apparently genuine horror. Not grief. But then, Jenny wouldn’t have expected that. Her eyes moved to the man she was leaning against. It was, of course, Arbie, who had wasted no time in becoming a pillar of support.

  But just how quickly, Jenny wondered, had he seized the advantage? Had he given even a single thought to anyone but himself, or Babs Walker? He was not even looking at Justin, Jenny noticed with bitter eyes, but was instead staring down at the blonde head leaning against his upper arm.

  He looked very, very happy.

  A small sound had Jenny’s head swivelling around. Alicia Greer was lying on the floor not a foot away from her twin, but she was being cradled in Keith Harding’s arms. He held on to her fiercely, only moving at all when another young man, kneeling in front of them, checked Alicia’s small white neck.