Fifteen Sixteen Maids In The Kitchen: A Grasshopper Lawns whodunit

by EJ Lamprey

  ‘It looks fab, by the way!’ she called towards the pantry and Vivian stuck her head out briefly to glance around assessingly.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? I’m very pleased with it. The only thing I really still hate is the hideous old sink but at least there’s a dishwasher now, and a giant washing machine. That’s all in the scullery, you should go look. It is absolutely amazing what you can hire when you start looking.’

  ‘Donald was saying the same. He thought the temporary Wi-Fi would be a problem but that was pretty easy. Never mind hiring, it’s amazing what you can buy for peanuts. He found twenty mattresses and all the linen we’d need at the Onderness auction. Did he tell you about it? They’d been storing a ton of stuff for a bedding place which went into liquidation, and they were so happy to get rid of the whole lot in one fell swoop they threw in bed cushions and even towels. Everything in violent pinks and greens. He said it should add nicely to the atmosphere of horror.’

  She started packing the shelves straight from the shopping bags, arranging cereal boxes by height. Vivian would rearrange them anyway. ‘The whole place generally looks much better, you must have been driving the various contractors with whips. That wretched gully could still be a problem, I thought it was being fixed?’

  ‘Tell me about it. The fuss some of the delivery guys made, you’d think it was the Grand Canyon.’ Vivian appeared in the pantry doorway, looking a little ruffled. ‘Donald could only organize one ton of gravel at such short notice and that simply isn’t enough. There’s two more tons coming during the week. I know he’s been refusing to use his own car to come here, and William was a bit fed up about switching cars. But then William is fed up about everything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t risk my car, for sure. I’m a bit worried about Kirsty and Drew going back and forth to work every day because hers isn’t built for bundu-bashing either. She managed to fix her shifts to match Drew’s hours for the week. At worst if your Stuart is planning to do some time at his office I suppose they could leave the car on the far side and catch a lift in his Land Rover until the extra gravel is in place.’

  Vivian, who had turned back into the pantry, stuck her head out again, looking slightly exasperated. ‘Not my Stuart. You sound like William.’

  ‘Okay. He’s obviously a bit taken with you, that’s all. Which is good for William.’

  ‘He won’t even notice. Don’t you dare disapprove of me for flirting a little with Stuart. William considers me a Jonah: he’s practically told me that taking up with me is what has dried up his creativity.’

  Edge grinned reluctantly. ‘You manipulative old fraud,’ she remarked without rancour. ‘You want me to reassure you and point out he’s never written better than in the year or so since you got together. And that you’ve always supported me and encouraged me from my very first dreadful screenplay. I won’t do it. Flirt if you want, it’ll serve William right.’

  Vivian withdrew again without responding and Edge shrugged and turned her attention back to the mountain of groceries. The final catering list was thirteen people, which seemed an ideal number for a horror week, and there were a great many bulging bags. Although she was officially fellow caterer she’d had little part in Vivian’s drawing up of meal plans for a week, and all the hiring and purchasing involved. In some ways it had been a lonely fortnight: William had remained grumpy and distant, but they had drawn up a recruitment campaign to ensure they didn’t cross paths, and she’d not needed to work closely with him, rather to her relief.

  There had been enough of a demand, in the end, to charge rates high enough to briefly improve William’s mood. Besides Stuart, Kirsty and Drew, there were six paying guests, and while none could be described as household names, all were reasonably well-known and pleased to have the publicity. She did wonder how the others would react to Kkkitty Catt, who had been the last to sign up, but she’d delayed her as long as possible in the hope of a more suitable writer wanting to come. The erotica writer had only sent her payment and signed indemnity form two days ago. They’d have to lump it and Beulah could well be right: she’d add an interesting contrast.

  She frowned over a catering-size packet of bacon in the next shopping bag. Breakfast, or the catering fridge? But Vivian had said no cooked breakfasts. She put the bacon back on the table, and started sorting fruit into the baskets at the bottom of the shelves. She could hear Vivian humming to herself in the pantry and smiled. It was nice to hear her sounding happier. She straightened and massaged her back. She noticed for the first time that there was a huge double schematic of the house mounted on the wall behind the door, and moved closer to look at it.

  Floor plan (upstairs)

  Each guest’s nom de plume and genre had been written in the bedroom they would be occupying and she read the names with interest. Kkkitty Catt (erotica) was flanked by DJ Bagger (thriller) and Zoe Black (macabre). Martha Smith (thriller) was in the next room, alongside their friend Grant, and Kirsty and Drew in the big corner bedroom were tactfully and respectively shown as police procedure and paralegal.

  She chuckled under her breath and Donald, soft-footed as ever, remarked from behind her, ‘Stuart drew up the plan and delivered it here. I spent half an afternoon working out who would go where and filling in the names. Like it?’

  ‘Very much. Why have you hung marker pens next to it? Are you encouraging the guests to switch rooms?’

  ‘Not at all. William will explain in detail when everyone’s here, but basically the red pens are to mark every illusion anyone notices, and the black pens are for mechanical effects as we find them. See the way I marked in the bathroom oubliette? I’ve concealed that switch under a wall plant, by the way. Can’t have some numpty triggering it when there are only three bathrooms in total, especially as I didn't mark ours. It is not for sharing.’

  She followed the direction of his finger to look with interest at their suite of rooms on the downstairs plan. The rooms were only lightly sketched in, had been shaded and marked as private, and listed Donald MacDonald (theatre), Edge Cameron (scriptwriter), William Robertson (SF) and Vivian Oliver (operatic theatre).

  Floor plan (downstairs)

  ‘Heavens, don’t we look grand? We’ll be swamped. You and Vivian will find yourself creating an opera from a Kkkitty Catt bodice ripper by the end of the week.’

  ‘If you can work an opera out of someone removing a woman’s stockings with his teeth, you’re wasted writing scripts. I came through to help finish the kitchen unpack, Stuart will be here after his cigarette. William’s marching up and down the driveway waiting for the taxi from the station. He’s convinced it will get stuck in the gully. So am I.’

  ‘Pretty much done, thanks Donald.’ Vivian came out of the pantry and cautiously touched the side of the electric urn. ‘Good. This is boiling. Something to drink?’

  ‘Aye but sit down, take a break, I’ll make it. You’ve done very well, I never thought this kitchen could look welcoming. Is that huge thing another fridge?’

  ‘A walk-in freezer.’ Vivian unlocked the door, swung it proudly and gestured inside. ‘Okay, step-in rather than walk-in, but pretty good, eh? Bill McNab brought me through to stock it on Thursday. He’s been wonderful. He made enough bulk meals in the Lawns kitchen for suppers every day, and helped me plan and buy for the lunches. It will all be extremely basic, but it should taste good. Nothing like having the help of a professional chef!’

  ‘Professional chef?’ Stuart, smelling like a winter bonfire, came into the kitchen and slightly crowded Vivian to peer into the freezer. She smiled at him but didn’t move away.

  ‘The food and beverage manager at the Lawns, where we live. He’s been a huge help. The menu is very simple, but the food will be top quality.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Donald stepped cautiously into the freezer and looked at the stacked shelves. ‘Shepherd’s pie, cottage pie, lasagne, beef stew with dumplings – no curry?’

  ‘Chicken curry bottom shelf at the back, and a few other things. There’s lots of e
verything, all designed to drive off the chill of this foul house.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’ Donald came out hastily and rubbed his arms. ‘The house is nothing like as bad as it was. Positively tropical after that freezer!’

  ‘So if anyone complains about being cold we’ll banish them to the freezer for ten minutes. It does mean Edge and I won’t have much cooking to do. It’s mainly heating stuff up and a bit of baking. That reminds me, I have to put the menus up on the wall. If anyone hates what’s on offer any particular day they’ll know to head out instead.’

  ‘I’ll put the menus up,’ Stuart offered helpfully. ‘Do you have Scotch tape? No, don’t worry, found it. You’re a very organized lady. Not many of us have cars, though?’ He suited action to word, holding a menu suggestively against the wall and taping it into place when she nodded. ‘William said he’d organized a minibus taxi to fetch them from the station.’

  Donald busied himself with mugs. ‘We’re not wanting them to leave the house, that’s not really the plan. We’ve got William’s monster here, and Zoe Black told William she has a Jeep, so she’s coming under her own steam. They’ll be arriving any time now. If you’re sorted, Vivian, we’ve got perhaps enough time to walk the dogs. I’m happy to walk them alone if you’re still busy.’

  ‘I love dogs, but that labrador didn’t like me very much. Watched me like a hawk through the glass when I was helping Donald.’ Stuart, carefully adjusting the menus in a straight line, missed Edge’s laughing glance at Vivian, who went slightly pink.

  ‘I still need to clear the table completely,’ she said hastily, ‘and be ready for the coffee and cake rush, they’ll be starving when they arrive. If you could walk the dogs, Donald, that would be a real help.’

  ‘Unless you need me, I’ll go with Donald.’ Edge rolled her shoulders. ‘If that’s okay.’

  ‘I’m happy to help Vivian. You both go. Have a quiet moment while you can, it’ll be a busy evening.’ Stuart put the last menu in place, and turned to study the updated house-plans with interest. He did a classic double take, then turned his head to stare at Donald. ‘Are you serious? Kkkitty Catt? Erotica?’

  ‘She knows what to expect!’ Edge was slightly defensive. ‘She insisted she wanted to soak up the atmosphere. I got the impression there’s some vampire porn in her creative pipeline.’

  ‘Fair enough, then she’s in the right place,’ Stuart agreed, peering at the board. ‘Oh, I’ve read Aubrey Jellicoe. There’s a man who needs to talk to a pro about writing about sex, though. I don’t think he can ever have had the real thing, his sex scenes are painful. Grant Pearson, I know that name. From Tenerife?’ Donald nodded and Stuart turned back to the board with interest. ‘Must be the same one, I know mine is a writer. I didn’t know he was over at the moment. Forensic thrillers. Ugh.’

  ‘Edge, the dogs? And you finally get to see our palatial quarters.’ Donald offered his arm with a flourish and Vivian nodded at her as Stuart tore his attention away from the plan and turned to help her unpack coffee cups.

  ‘I think Stuart’s a bit keen on Vivian, what do you think of him?’ Edge asked as the kitchen door closed behind them. He shrugged as they started along the archway corridor.

  ‘I don’t dislike him, but smile-flashers bore me. It’s like being in a toothpaste commercial, or I think I’m missing a joke. He was a dab hand at the painting, I wouldn't have finished in time without him, but I changed the subject when he started asking questions about their relationship. He’s not a bad match for her, he’d dance to her tune in the way William never will, but I’m not going to make it easy for him.’

  Edge ignored that, and looked suspiciously at the big potted plant set between the drawing room and library doors. ‘Is that a triffid, like the one upstairs?’

  ‘Only when one person walks past. The old man really was a genius. It won’t rustle so much as a leaf for the two of us, there’s some kind of sensor somewhere that can tell the difference.’

  Edge sidled past anyway, then looked through the arch at the hall and tugged him to a halt. ‘Wow, Donald, you’ve done well! It was shabby the last time I saw it, now it’s—I hardly know what. Neglected grand? Is that a style?’

  He looked pleased. ‘Lighting and a touch of paint, makes all the difference in the world. You like it?’

  ‘I love it, but it’s way spookier than it was before.’ She turned back to stare the way they had come as they walked on, and tightened her grip on his arm. ‘The shadows under the walkway are moving. You did that, right, they’re not moving on their own?’

  ‘Some of the shadows are moving, aye. Well spotted, that’s not supposed to register consciously. It’ll be a bit more subtle by artificial light.’

  ‘Oh, this is going to be really spooky. Those triffids creep me out. Can you imagine some poor guest nipping to the loo in the middle of the night and getting set on by a mad plant? I notice you didn’t mark either on the plan. That’s mean.’

  ‘It’ll only catch one person, then they’ll all know.’ He was slightly impatient. ‘They want to be frightened, remember. Milady, your quarters for the next week.’ He reached forward to open the door, then waved her through. His whippet scrambled guiltily off a chaise longue and danced towards them as Buster heaved himself to his feet, tail waving. Edge noticed neither as she stopped in her tracks, entranced.

  ‘Donald! This is lovely!’

  The morning room was beautifully proportioned, with a wall of windows out to the derelict conservatory. Slender pillars at either end half concealed the entrance to the respective bedrooms and delicate, gilt-legged furniture in soft ivory and cream exactly echoed the hand-decorated wallpaper and the creams and golds in the slightly worn and faded silk carpets.

  Photograph: Lady Monica’s suite, Kinloch Castle

  ‘Aye, it is. I haven’t had to do much in here, to be honest; it was kept in much better nick than the rest of the house. Touching up the gilt, mainly, that’s what Stuart was helping with. We can go out to the garden through the conservatory.’

  He lifted down the dogs’ leads, hesitated, shrugged, and hung them back behind the door.

  ‘Not very William at all, what’s he going to sit on?’ Edge gave a naughty giggle at a sudden image of William dumped to the floor in the ruins of one of the spindly Georgian couches as she followed Donald out into the conservatory and he looked slightly shocked.

  ‘Sit down? During the next week? You don’t imagine we’ll have time to sit, do you?’

  Arrivals

  Big as the house was, it had retained barely an acre of the original grounds and the dogs had to content themselves with exploring the overgrown garden. Buster followed an absorbing trail, nose to the ground, while Odette galloped in circles around them, the lashing of the long grass marking her passage. Donald had solved the problem of the lush conditions by having a winding path mowed through the meadow grass, colour-spotted with autumn brightness, which widened here and there to incorporate an occasional bench. The sun was briefly blotted out, and Edge glanced up at the heavy black clouds rolling in.

  ‘I really hope the roof doesn’t leak. That’s going to be a massive storm.’

  ‘I don’t think it does. It’s rained a fair bit while I’ve been working here but I never heard any ominous dripping. Rising damp is more of a problem, and if there is a storm, that gravel’s never going to hold out. I don’t much fancy getting out on foot, either. I went for a walk in the glen yesterday and got chased back to the house by a very territorial stag. I think he thought I wanted to add him to the heads in the main hall, and he wasn't having any part of it.’

  She laughed mockingly at him and he grinned reluctantly. ‘I’d like to see you stand your ground when a twelve-pointer is measuring you up to be skewered. Nice from far. Far from nice, when it’s up close and personal.’

  They were rounding the corner of the house when the taxi microbus clattered over the cattle grid and came to a crunching halt on the weed-spattered gravel. William hurried forwa
rd and threw open the sliding door with a flourish. The first person to emerge was unmistakably Kkkitty Catt, wearing a dress which fitted like a second skin, precariously high stiletto heels, and lustrous black curls tumbling over her shoulders. She grabbed at his arm for support on the gravel, looked past him, dismissed Edge with a glance, and fixed her heavily made-up eyes on Donald as they approached.

  She dropped William’s arm instantly, spread her hands helplessly and said to Donald in an incongruously baby voice, ‘I fink I have the wrong shoes on.’

  ‘I think you do,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘Will you manage?’

  ‘If I could lean on you, I fink so. Silly me!’

  She reached back into the minibus to retrieve her handbag and Donald flickered a wink at Edge.

  ‘The Catt? Blimey!’ She bit her lip to stop the giggle at his sotto voce comment. As he stepped gallantly forward to offer his arm the next passenger thrust out her head, then emerged from the mini bus.

  ‘Mrs Cameron. How the devil are you?’ Martha Smith, a small lean woman in her late sixties with cropped grey hair and a very sensible trouser suit, didn’t seem to have aged a day since they’d last met. Edge went forward smiling to shake hands, her fingers promptly crushed in the other’s firm grip. ‘You’re looking very well. Where’s my suitcase, Mr Robertson?’

  ‘We’ll take your cases up to your rooms,’ William assured her and she stared up at him, nodded once, and turned her attention back to Edge, tightening her grasp on her hand.