An Invisible Murder (18 page)

Instead, she looked forlornly at Lady Vee.

Lady Vee looked forlornly and helplessly back.

And before either one could disgrace themselves, Jenny turned and quickly walked out.

M
eecham knocked on the door to the breakfast-room and came in gingerly. He took a quick look around, but Lord Richard and the American bombshell were nowhere in sight.

Avonsleigh looked up from his paper. Lady Vee, who was standing at the window looking out over the west garden and the village, turned to glance at him, a mournful look on her face.

Meecham coughed. ‘The cook has just left, m’lady,’ he said miserably. His lordship ducked back quickly behind his paper, lest the butler see the renewed tears in his eyes. Meecham glanced at the breakfast plates. Segments of fruit and raw vegetables still lined the plates.

Meecham remembered back to the good old days of last week, when he’d collected empty plates with only smears of egg, marred only by bacon rind and the odd bit of tomato skin. He sighed and picked up the plates, then stared down at an untouched carrot stick and felt woefully inadequate. He coughed. ‘Er, we in the kitchen, that is, the staff, have taken of late, to … er … buying some cereal, your ladyship. In a packet,’ he added, not sure whether they were au fait with corn flakes. When his lordship looked at him, he coughed again. ‘I was wondering, my lord, if you and her ladyship might, er, possibly benefit from a dish of corn flakes of a morning. That is, if….’ 

‘Meecham, you’re a godsend,’ Vee boomed from her window, cutting across his nervous embarrassment. ‘By all means, sneak us a bowl of corn flakes whenever you can. But make sure
he
doesn’t catch you.’

Meecham bowed.
He
was the new chef Richard’s American bride had all but forced down their throat. An American, like herself, he was one of those new guru-type of individuals that had sprung up lately, preaching healthy living and to curse all animal fats.

‘No, my lady,’ Meecham said, with feeling. ‘I’ll make sure the, er, Chef, doesn’t catch me.’

There was something almost rabidly fanatic about the new chef. The way he chopped vegetables was really alarming. And all the new kinds of vegetables he was bringing into the kitchen … well, Meecham didn’t like the look of them at all. Foreign things they were. Things you never even heard of, let alone wanted to eat. Ugli fruit for instance. Ugli it looked and ugli it tasted, in his opinion.

He sighed woefully. For a week now he’d been forced to watch Miss Starling showing the new chef around, standing aside as he cooked, her lips pulled into a thin, grim line. She’d looked fit to blow a gasket, but she never had. Instead, she’d always managed to cook around the chef, coming up with something good for the staff. And with Meecham’s help and some expert planning, they had even managed to slip the family the odd steak and kidney pie or fish-and-chip supper when the American bombshell and Lord Richard were dining out.

But no more. Miss Starling had given her notice on the day of Lord Richard’s arrival, and for a week they’d been dreading the day she’d go. And now the evil moment was upon them. Even the odd clandestine steak and kidney pie was now but a pipe dream. 

Meecham heaved another sigh, collected the plates and left.

Lord Avonsleigh waited until he was gone, then got up and joined his wife at the window. ‘I must say, I do think it’s a bit thick,’ he complained. ‘I never thought Miss Starling was the sort to abandon us in the trenches.’

Lady Vee snorted. ‘Nor is she, George, nor is she. But you simply can’t ask a cook of her calibre to restrict herself to vegetables. It, well, it’s demeaning. It’s insulting. It’s like asking Sir Christopher Wren to restrict himself to designing garden sheds. Or asking one of those orchestra johnnies to play a violin with one string missing. It just isn’t cricket.’

Her husband nodded glumly. As ever, his darling wife was right. ‘She might have stayed on and cooked my puddings, at least,’ he mumbled, unwilling to let it rest.

‘With what, dearest?’ Vee snorted. ‘I’ve looked up what “vegan” means. It means not only is meat off limits, but anything else that comes from a bird or animal. So poor Miss Starling wouldn’t be able to use eggs, so there goes any kind of sponge pudding. She mustn’t use milk, so bang go our tapioca and rice puddings. Unless it was fruit, fruit, fruit, it would never get past that creature Richard hired.’

George went pale. ‘I’ve been thinking, old girl. That new chef of ours. Do you think we might, well, bump him orf?’

‘Bump him orf?’ she repeated, giving her husband a fond look. ‘Well we might, George. And with Miss Starling gone, we’d probably get away with it too. But’ – she patted his hand fondly – ‘I don’t think it’s quite on, do you? After all, the chap’s a foreigner. You can’t go about potting foreigners. They do take on so.’

He sighed. ‘I suppose so. So what do we do?’

Vee smiled. ‘We wait, George. Richard is the next Lord Avonsleigh, and his wife the Lady, so we must be careful
not to alienate them. For the moment, the American
bombshell
– that’s what the staff are calling her behind her back, you know – is having it all her own way, because Richard is still so young and head-over-heels in love with her. But the honeymoon stage doesn’t last long, and the rose-tinted glasses will come off, sooner or later, you mark my words. And don’t forget, George dear, Richard is our son. He’ll soon start to crave a nice bit of rump steak. He’ll start dreaming of roast lamb and mint sauce. And then….’

‘Then we’ll get Miss Starling back,’ his lordship said firmly.

‘Exactly. I’ll word an advertisement that only Miss Starling will recognize and understand, and put it in
The Times.
You’ll see. Despite having to always cook
one
vegetarian dish for the bomb … er, Beatrice, she’ll come back to us.’

His lordship sighed. He wondered if the colonel had a cook that knew how to make real spotted dick with custard. He’d have to get himself invited over….

‘Oh, look, there she is,’ she said, craning her neck. Below them, solitary rucksack in hand, Jenny walked briskly across the lawn. Her bright cherry-red van was currently in the village, lodged in the local mechanic’s front garden, getting itself a good overhaul.

‘She’s headed for the short cut to the village,’ his lordship muttered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I do hope she hasn’t felt
too
put out about all this,’ he added worryingly.

Vee watched the cook put down her rucksack and suddenly veer off to the left, heading unerringly towards Seth’s carefully fenced off vegetable plot.

She blinked. ‘I rather think, George, that she has felt a little bit bitter,’ she said mildly, her tone wavering on the verge of laughter. ‘Look who she’s just picked up.’

His lordship, a trifle far-sighted, leaned forward and
peered. ‘Well, it looks like – good gad, it is. She’s got Henry! Vee, our cook’s kidnapping our tortoise!’ he yelled, aghast.

Vee bit her lip, laughter gurgling at the back of her throat. ‘I don’t think that’s what she has in mind dear. Watch.’

He watched.

As she neared the carefully protected rows of beans, carrots, cabbages, lettuces, beetroot and radishes, the large, shapely cook stopped and looked around furtively. Then she quickly hoisted the tortoise over the chicken-wire fence and set him down firmly in the nearest row of lettuces. 

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