An Invisible Murder

by Joyce Cato

  Jenny turned back to Lord Avonsleigh who was blinking rapidly, and no doubt trying to conjure up the image of a white chocolate cake. Then his gaze fell to the teapot, and his mouth dropped open.

  ‘Good Gad!’ he yelped. ‘Poltergeists!’

  His wife jumped at her husband’s no-doubt unexpected and uncharacteristic display of liveliness, glanced at the teapot and sighed. ‘No dear. It must be Henry again.’

  ‘Oh,’ his lordship subsided immediately and once again rang the bell-rope, before picking up his ubiquitous book. He sighed deeply.

  ‘When can you start, Miss Starling?’ Lady Vee asked, and Jenny, again with some effort, dragged her thoughts away from Henry, and smiled. From her hosts’ reaction, obviously ‘Henry’ was a friendly ghost. Or one who was, at least, not likely to start hurling the furniture about.

  ‘I have my suitcase with me, as it happens,’ she replied. ‘I could start right away,’ she added simply. The advertised post had included a ‘live in’ option.

  Lady Vee beamed her pleasure, and didn’t see the need to comment on the truly amazing gall required to come to an interview with her case already packed. Besides, having now met Jenny Starling it seemed somehow quite appropriate.

  Just then the door opened, and the pretty blonde maid returned. Lady Vee pointed at the tea cosy, still ambling, and the maid sighed. ‘I’m sorry m’lady. Henry does have this way with him….’

  Her ladyship, not looking a bit put out, merely smiled.

  Again, Jenny turned her thoughts to Henry. Obviously a well-known ghost, and not one to strike panic into the hearts of the castle’s denizens. A young page perhaps, killed in some forgotten battle?

  The maid walked to the table and unceremoniously plucked off the tea cosy revealing the tortoise that lurked underneath. The reptile raised its scrawny neck and gazed about in stolid, reptilian dignity.

  Jenny just managed to stop herself from laughing hysterically out loud. ‘A tortoise,’ she said, and caught Lady Vee’s questioning glance. Jenny forced her face into neutrality. ‘I did just wonder … ghosts….’ she murmured diffidently, waving one hand vaguely and casually in the air and letting her voice trail off gently.

  Lady Vee, suddenly realizing that this wondrous cook had just sat through the entire interview in a state of fear and trepidation without so much as raising a single squawk, felt almost humble.

  ‘Janice, ask Meecham to prepare the blue room for Miss Starling at once. She’ll be staying,’ she said simply.

  And the two women beamed their mutual contentment at each other.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jenny’s suitcase was in fact a heavy-weight nylon rucksack and, after she’d retrieved it from the back of her colourful van, allowed the butler to escort her to her room.

  The blue room turned out to be just that. As Meecham, who’d insisted on taking the bag from her, set it down, Jenny found herself very glad that she happened to like the colour blue. If she hadn’t, the room would have driven her insane in a matter of hours. For a long moment the statuesque cook stood in respectful silence by the bed. It was a full four-poster, complete with swathes of blue and gold material and intricately carved posts of a wood so dark it might have been ebony. In this room too, the walls were smothered with paintings.

  ‘Would you like to unpack now, Miss Starling, or shall I take you to the kitchens?’ Meecham enquired.

  ‘Oh, the kitchens, please,’ Jenny said at once. Her bedroom had a lovely view of the meadows that lay on the north side, but the kitchen was always where her heart was.

  Meecham smiled in approval. The old cook had left last week and, like the rest of the staff, he’d hoped that a new cook would be appointed before she left, since everyone knew that the kitchen help would hardly prove to be an adequate stand-in.

  ‘There are several members of staff besides myself who eat in.’ He decided to start her education right away as he took her down stairs and corridors that would have made the maze at Hampton Court Palace seem like a doddle. ‘As well as myself, there is my daughter, Gayle, who also acts as a guide at the castle – the family apartments are of course strictly private. Then there’s Elsie Bingham, she’s in charge of the kitchen work and the most important member of staff as far as you’re concerned, I’m sure. Janice, the young lady who served your tea also eats her midday meal with us. She works in the tea-room in the afternoons. None of the gardening staff eats in, of course,’ he added, just in case this competent-looking woman wasn’t quite as experienced as she made out.

  He turned after negotiating one particularly narrow twist, and saw a look of amused but friendly understanding on her face, and gave a small nod of satisfaction. Obviously his warning had been unnecessary.

  ‘Then there’s the teaching staff.’

  ‘Teaching staff?’ Jenny asked, wondering how much further it was to the kitchen, and feeling more and more relieved that it would be Meecham’s job to serve the food.

  ‘Yes, Lady Roberta is sixteen, and the only granddaughter of Lord and Lady Avonsleigh. They had two sons, but the elder and his wife were killed in a boating accident ten years ago. They had one daughter, Lady Roberta. She is now sixteen, and being educated at the castle. Naturally.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jenny murmured, but was actually rather surprised. In this modern day and age, surely not many members of the British aristocracy were still taught at home by tutors?

  ‘The youngest son and now heir is Sir Richard, but he’s abroad at the moment. America,’ Meecham paused. ‘He is, I believe, bringing home a new bride in a few weeks’ time.’

  Jenny hoped the new arrival wouldn’t feel too out of place here. It must be hard, uprooting to a totally new environment.

  ‘Mr Powell-Brooks is primarily Lady Roberta’s art teacher,’ Meecham carried on. ‘The Avonsleigh family has a long history of art appreciation, and for centuries all the Avonsleighs have been taught both theory and practice when it comes to fine art. It’s a tradition that will, I’m sure, never be broken.’

  Regardless of talent or aptitude, Jenny surmised wryly. Although she could imagine the poor old man upstairs being forced into art lessons as a child, she just couldn’t see him producing anything more than a few pathetic daubs. Still, no doubt her ladyship, having married into the family, had been spared the ordeal.

  She wondered how Lady Roberta was doing.

  ‘Mr Powell-Brooks also takes some other lessons, standing in for … the governess … when appropriate.’

  Jenny wondered if she’d imagined his slight hesitation when mentioning the governess, but just then he opened the door onto the most spectacular kitchen she’d ever seen.

  And Jenny Starling had seen plenty.

  It was the size, of course, that first struck her. Here, in the olden days, over twenty servants had worked and toiled together, butchering, baking huge amounts of coarse bread in vast ovens, and preparing meals for hundreds of people. The walls had been recently white-washed, and huge ovens proliferated. Real copper pots and pans hung from wooden pegs, contrasting oddly with the more modern appliances of dishwasher and microwave.

  In spite of all this, Jenny was struck at once by the welcome warmth and homely feel of the place. There were several easy chairs scattered about and, in the centre of the room, a vast, spotlessly clean wooden table dominated its surroundings. It had a full complement of high-backed chairs and, sitting in one, drinking a cup of tea, was a woman who was probably in her forties, but looked older. Her hair was pulled back and her hands were thin and knobbly. She was, Jenny surmised, a woman who knew what hard work was all about – a real rarity in this push-button age.

  Meecham coughed, and the older woman looked up. Her eyes fastened on the cook, a look of fear and hope curiously mixed in her dull grey eyes. Jenny understood it at once. A cook could make life hell for a co-worker, and she was anxious at once to reassure her. She was already moving forward with a kind but firm look on her face. ‘Hello, you must be Elsie.’ She held out her hand, and the olde
r woman flushed and gave a brief handshake.

  ‘I’m the new cook. Please call me Jenny. I’m sure we shall get along splendidly.’

  Elsie glanced away, reserving judgement. Satisfied that she’d done as much as she could on a first meeting – only time would reassure her most important helper that all would be well – she turned back to Meecham. ‘The ovens are all electric?’

  Meecham nodded. ‘We’re not on the gas main here.’

  Jenny was content. Although she could cook on anything, she preferred electric.

  For the next half-hour she toured her domain, making mental inventories, approving of some of the older equipment whilst making mental notes to bring in a few new gadgets of her own.

  ‘Well, Elsie, I think a cup of tea would be welcome about now,’ she hinted gently at last, and her helper, without a word, set about the task. Just then the door opened and a young woman walked in. She could only be Gayle, Meecham’s daughter, for she had her father’s dark eyes and slightly supercilious face. Yet she also had a slender grace that probably made most men look twice. Her hair was pulled back, revealing a long, graceful neck. Nowhere near beautiful, and yet, in a way, very attractive.

  ‘Gayle, this is Miss Starling, the new cook. My daughter, Gayle.’ Meecham introduced them smoothly. Gayle gave the cook a smile that was pleasant enough, but which was dinstinctly distracted. She caught her father’s eye, and Meecham, reading her look instantly, wordlessly excused himself and moved away.

  Father and daughter retired to one corner.

  ‘They’ll all be here in a minute,’ Elsie muttered behind her, her broad country accent very agreeable on the ear.

  ‘All?’

  ‘Everyone comes down here,’ Elsie said, ‘save for their nibs. It’s warm you see. And cosy. And the old cook always had scones or cake or summat about that you could nibble on.’

  Elsie gauged the new cook to be in her late twenties, or at a push, early thirties. She looked far too young, anyway, to be able to cope. But Jenny instantly and gratefully took the hint. As soon as she’d planned and begun the evening meal, she’d get onto it. The kitchen was expected, it seemed, to keep a constant source of cakes and buns on hand. So be it.

  Over in the corner, Jenny saw Gayle Meecham shake her head vehemently. She didn’t look happy, but her father was obviously winning whatever argument they were having. Eventually, Gayle sighed and left, but, as she opened the door to go, a bubble of energy burst through it, dressed in a paint-smeared smock, and with long brown hair flying. Gayle very wisely stood aside to let the human dynamo in.

  ‘Hello, Meech. Anything good to eat? I’m starving!’

  Jenny instantly felt stricken. The very words ‘I’m starving’ struck instantly at her heart, like a skewer. And uttered by a growing girl, they were doubly pathetic.

  ‘I’ll have some toasted sandwiches ready in a jiffy,’ she promised automatically. They were the only things that were hot, filling, and could be made in next to no time.

  ‘Lady Roberta, this is Miss Starling, the new cook.’ Meecham introduced them, unfazed by being referred to as ‘Meech’.

  ‘Hello there,’ the brown-haired, paint-smeared energy bundle said, and quickly plopped down into one of the padded chairs. Behind her came a young man, rather less paint smeared, who made straight for the fire. He was tall, lean, and looked slightly effete. One could imagine him in an amateur dramatics society playing Byron, or one of those tragic, doomed young men. He was so handsome he almost hurt the eyes.

  Roberta, Jenny noticed, even over the bread and cheese she was preparing, never took her eyes off him, and she hid the small smile tugging at her lips by turning to the grill.

  ‘Would you like a toasted sandwich, Mr Powell-Brooks?’ Jenny asked, and the young art tutor turned, no doubt surprised to be addressed by a stranger.

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. Unlike some greedy little monkey I can mention, I can actually hold out until dinner.’

  Roberta grinned then pouted. ‘Killjoy,’ she said, then added, ‘Oh, Malc, I’ve used up all the red. You remember that sunset I did last night?’

  Malcolm Powell-Brooks looked over at his young pupil, a smile of resigned exasperation on his face. ‘What, all the red? What did you apply it with? A shovel?’

  ‘What’s that about a shovel?’ a new voice asked, and Jenny turned to see the pretty blonde maid come in. Tomorrow she would have to start baking some good solid cakes – caraway seed cake. Walnut and coffee perhaps. Even if she had only this minute arrived, she felt as if she were failing them all by being unable to produce scones from out of thin air.

  ‘Lady Roberta, your Henry has been up to his usual shenanigans again,’ the maid reproached mildly. It was obvious that the servants at the castle enjoyed a friendly and relaxed atmosphere with their employers, no doubt due to long association.

  Janice really was extraordinarily pretty, Jenny thought, as she removed the toasted cheese from the grill, cut it into triangles, added some Worcestershire sauce and sliced tomato on top and presented it to Lady Roberta, who took it with a face-splitting grin and instantly tucked in.

  Jenny guessed that Janice’s job was to keep his lordship and Lady Vee’s private living area clean and polished, and that a small army of villagers came in to see to the rest of the castle.

  Jenny watched, bemused, as her solitary diner consumed the still sizzling cheese with satisfying gusto. Her gums, Jenny thought absently, must come iron-plated.

  ‘Oh Henry. He gets everywhere,’ Roberta said airily between mouthfuls. ‘I was only five when I had him, Miss Starling,’ she explained, taking it for granted that the new cook would know what she was talking about. ‘At that age, I thought a tortoise would be amazing fun. But old Courts, the gardener, he fenced off all the vegetable gardens so that Henry couldn’t get in and munch his grotty old lettuces. So Henry gets bored, and in the summer he sticks his big fat nose in everywhere. Can’t blame him, I suppose. In winter, he just disappears. Under the stairs, I expect, or one of the airing cupboards. Nobody’s ever found out where he goes.’

  ‘Mr Courtenay was quite right to keep that animal out,’ Elsie surprised Jenny by piping up. ‘And you like his grotty lettuces right enough, your ladyship, when they come in a salad.’

  Roberta grinned, totally unabashed. ‘Quite right too, Else.’

  Jenny, recognizing the young lady’s penchant for shortening names, wondered what she’d come up with in her case. Was she doomed to be called Jen, or maybe even Old Star for the rest of Roberta’s residency? The thought made her shudder.

  Meecham had now wandered back from his conference with his daughter, and accepted a cup of tea. When the kitchen door once again opened and closed with an echoing thud, everyone looked around. But the woman who walked in seemed not to notice that she was momentarily the focus of all eyes, and made her way calmly to the table.

  Jenny judged her to be in her early thirties. She had short, but nicely cut wavy dark-blonde hair and a heart-shaped face. Big blue eyes looked out on the world with a kind of unkind wisdom that made the cook feel instantly uncomfortable. She should have been quite beautiful, but somehow, wasn’t.

  ‘I see we have a new arrival,’ the newcomer said, her voice flat and even and curiously bland.

  ‘Jenny Starling,’ Jenny said, thrusting out her hand and finding it taken in a warm strong grip.

  ‘I’m Ava Simmons, Lady Roberta’s governess.’

  Jenny, who remembered seeing her on the stairs not an hour ago studying a painting, nodded politely.

  ‘Simm, want a sandwich?’ Roberta asked, quickly biting into the last one of hers, lest someone take her seriously.

  Ava Simmons smiled at her pupil in genuine fondness. ‘No, thank you, Lady Roberta. I’m quite sure I can wait for my dinner.’ The gentle reproof, much to the cook’s relief, slid right off Roberta’s back like water off a duck’s feathers. (Jenny liked to see people eat.)

  Without asking, Ava helped herself to a cup of tea, and seated hersel
f at the table, sipping gently. No one spoke. Slightly puzzled at the abruptly repressed atmosphere that seemed to have settled over everybody, Jenny felt the sudden need to dent the silence.

  ‘Have you worked here long, Miss Simmons?’ she asked, and the governess gave her a grateful look.

  ‘No, just over two weeks. Lady Vee and Sir George decided that, at sixteen, Lady Roberta’s school lessons should gradually give way to rather broader experiences.’

  ‘She means,’ Roberta said, rolling her eyes, ‘that their nibs want me to walk and talk like a lady. Good old Simm has me pacing the nursery with books on my head.’

  Everybody smiled as they pictured the absurd spectacle. And yet Jenny had detected just a hint of asperity in Lady Roberta’s voice. It also explained the awkward silence. Miss Simmons was new to the job, and it would take her a while to fit into the tight niche that no doubt existed here.

  As cook, Jenny’s own acceptance was taken a little more for granted. No one wanted to get on the bad side of the cook, after all. They could end up with lumpy gravy and burnt chops.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Malcolm Powell-Brooks said, out of the blue. ‘That skylight needs to be widened in the studio. We’re not getting enough light. Do you think you could get some workmen in, Meecham?’

  Meecham nodded, and promised to get onto it. Ava Simmons sighed. ‘You should see the studio, Miss Starling. It would put a professional artist to shame.’

  ‘Only the best for my pupil,’ Malcolm said, but his jaunty smile seemed just a little bit strained. ‘When you’re teaching the granddaughter of a family of art collectors like the Avonsleighs, only the finest canvases, best paints and most professional brushes will do. Right, Rob?’

  Lady Roberta grinned, hoist by her own petard. She pouted again. ‘Rob, indeed,’ she muttered, but her eyes sparkled and looked adoringly on the visage of her idol.

  Ava Simmons looked away, frowning slightly, and Jenny wanted to tell her not to worry – that sixteen-year-old girls were apt to get crushes on their teachers, especially ones who looked like Malcolm Powell-Brooks. Nothing ever came of it.