Deadly Stuff (3 page)

‘You were bored out of your mind, and at a loss after the divorce. Don’t try and deny it. You jumped at the chance to get
out and about and meet new people.’

Jenny’s ears pricked. Recently divorced, hmmm?

‘That might be so, but I’m still not sure it’s for me,’ he said. ‘So far, I haven’t been exactly wowing my fellow taxidermists. My domestic cat was somewhat less than a triumph.’

Jenny blinked. OK. Best not go there.

‘Oh it takes practice. Years of it, if Maurice is to be believed,’ Vicki reassured him. ‘You should have seen my first efforts. But I swear that man thinks that he’s the only one who can stuff a tiger.’

Jenny blinked again.

‘One of the local wild-life parks is expecting one of their oldest tigers to die soon, and the science department of a university in Cumbria is making noises about buying it and preserving it as a teaching aid for conservation,’ James explained, seeing her expression. ‘If they keep being poached in the wild like they are, a dead stuffed tiger is probably the only one the next generation is ever likely to see,’ he added grimly.

‘James is a bit of an eco-warrior,’ Vicki explained, a shade drily.

Jenny nodded. He probably knew her mother, then. She was probably out somewhere camped in a forest and saving some trees from a bypass. ‘And will Maurice get the commission?’ she asked curiously.

‘Oh, The Greater Ribble has been approached, along with one or two other establishments. But we’re by far the oldest and best society. We have no less than six members who own and run their own companies. We have the reputation, no doubt about it,’ Vicki said confidently. ‘And no, Maurice isn’t the only one capable of getting the commission. There are one or two others. Well, four at least, but Maurice, being Maurice, is sure that he’ll get it.’

Jenny, aware of James’s speculative brown-eyed gaze upon
her, was just wondering herself how she was going to gracefully cut herself and the luscious divorced hunk free from Vicki’s orbit, but before she could come up with a strategy, Vicki suddenly came out with a pithy and startling epithet.

‘Speak of the bloody devil,’ she added, and plastered a patently false smile across her face. Jenny turned, not at all surprised now to see Maurice Raines bearing down upon them.

His eyes went straight to Jenny, his bright blue gaze running over her with obvious interest.

Jenny sighed heavily. Just what she needed when trying to test the waters with James – an ageing Lothario with ambitions above his station.

‘Maurice,’ Vicki said flatly. ‘You know James?’

‘No, can’t say as I do,’ Maurice said briskly. ‘A newbie, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I’ve been a member for just a couple of months.’

‘Done much?’

‘A cat. One or two fish. I’m currently working on a corn snake.’

Maurice waved the corn snake away as irrelevant. He turned to Jenny. ‘Now you I’m sure I’ve never met. You are, if I may say so, unforgettable.’ He reached out to take her hand and Jenny wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d attempted to kiss it.

He sounded as if he’d watched too many classic Hollywood romances. What was she supposed to do now? Swoon at his feet? Jenny bit back a grin as she wondered what he’d do if she did. If he attempted to catch her, she’d squash him flat.

‘Mr Raines, isn’t it?’ she said instead, firmly pumping his hand up and down and then releasing her own. ‘Your fame goes before you,’ she promised him archly.

Vicki snorted but wisely sipped her coffee and made no comment.

‘Oh – all good I hope?’ Maurice said with a laugh.

Jenny smiled and said nothing. Anyone could hope, after all.

‘Down, boy,’ Vicki said, with a false attempt at humour that had far too much bite in it to work. ‘Jenny here isn’t one of us. She’s the lady responsible for the wonderful meal we all enjoyed tonight. She’s the college cook.’

‘Oh, for the summer conference season only,’ Jenny corrected.

‘Ah, I see. Well, you’ll get no complaints from me, my dear,’ Maurice said, smilingly showing off a set of very white and even teeth. Jenny would have bet her month’s salary that they were all capped. ‘I particularly liked the starter.’

Jenny smiled and inclined her head graciously.

‘Vicki, I needed to see you about some rescheduling in the itinerary for tomorrow,’ Maurice said, reaching out and peremptorily taking the treasurer firmly by the elbow. As he began leading her off, Jenny heard her already start complaining.

‘Oh come on, Maurice, I’ve already given you the prime mid-morning slot in the lecture hall….’

‘Not a match made in heaven, those two,’ James Raye said, somewhat uncomfortably, as the obviously hostile couple moved away.

‘No, so I’ve already been told,’ Jenny agreed. ‘So,’ – she turned and smiled up at him – ‘What exactly made you want to be a taxidermist of all things?’

It wasn’t an idle question. A good-looking, recently divorced man in his early thirties didn’t need to resort to such quite spectacularly desperate measures in order to start socializing again, surely?

James laughed. ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea how it happened,’ he admitted. ‘Vicki is a friend of my older sister. I somehow found myself invited to dinner with big Sis, where
I met Vicki. And from then on I seemed to get drawn into the Greater Ribble lot by osmosis.’

Jenny smiled. Ah, that explained it. Easily led. And obviously used to being handled by the women in his life. Excellent. It meant that he’d already been thoroughly house-trained. As a prospective lover for a brief summer flirtation, he was shaping up nicely.

‘Have you seen the Fellows’ garden by moonlight?’ she asked him. ‘It’s strictly private and off limits, but I discovered an unlocked gate into the walled grounds on my afternoon exploration.’

James laughed. ‘Are you trying to get me into trouble?’

‘Oh yes,’ Jenny agreed, taking him gently by the hand.

As the travelling cook showed James Raye just how lovely hollyhocks could be by the light of a silvery moon, someone else, now circulating in the JCR and drinking a fine malt whisky, went over their plans for tomorrow in their head.

Timing was important of course. And, if the victim arrived too early or too late, then a little improvization might be called for. But the person planning murder was fairly confident that they wouldn’t be seen. Or if they were, that nothing too compromising would be obvious to a casual glance from a passer-by.

But still. Best get an early night and lay off the booze. A clear head was essential.

The would-be killer smiled, bid several people good night, and retired to bed.

Once in their tall, high-ceilinged bedroom, the killer put the kettle on and then carefully retrieved the stolen bottle of medication from their suitcase. Carefully, the killer cleaned out a mug and wiped it dry, before pulling apart twenty capsules and emptying the powder into the mug. When the kettle was boiled, the killer then poured the boiling water over it, and
dissolved the powder into liquid form.

From the research done, it was more than enough to kill a man.

Carefully, the killer set aside the water to cool, and began to undress before climbing into bed.

This individual contemplated their actions uneasily. The person concerned wasn’t a monster, when all was said and done. Nobody in their right mind, after all, actually
wanted
to kill another human being. But the killer was being given no other choice. It wasn’t, even, really their fault. They were being pushed into it by the malice of others. What was going to happen tomorrow was the result of other people’s wrongdoing, as much as anything else.

And with that comforting thought, the individual turned over in the comfortable bed and, eventually, slept.

J
enny rose bright and early, smiling over her memories of the previous evening. James had looked as good in the moonlight as he had under the far more prosaic electric lights, and they had spent a pleasant hour in the gardens, strolling, chatting, and generally getting to know one another.

So far the signs looked good, but Jenny was picky about her men. Time would tell. Right now, she stretched and dressed and made her way down to the kitchens, although, in truth, breakfast could have been handled by the college’s regular kitchen workers, since there was very little that needed overseeing by a professional cook.

As she stepped into the massive, white-tiled space, the unmistakable scent of toasting bread hit her nose and made her smile happily. Toast and frying onions were two scents that could be almost guaranteed to put most things right, in her opinion.

The scouts had already set up a selection of cereals, breakfast fruits and bread rolls on the side tables, to which the guests could help themselves. For those who preferred porridge, Jenny could see that a big pot was already simmering away, and was being attended by a competent-looking, grandmotherly woman, who wasn’t about to let it stick on the bottom.
Excellent. Jenny beamed at her and got a happy beam back.

Then she walked across to the vast range of ovens, where two men and two women were at work grilling bacon, sausages and kidneys, and frying eggs.

Jenny nodded. ‘Just what is it about the great traditional English breakfast that appeals so much, do you think?’ she mused.

One of the women, a forty-something with tightly curled brown hair, smiled.

‘Don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but nearly everyone orders it. I think it’s something to do with being away from home. Calories and cholesterol don’t count, so it seems, if you’re away on holiday. Or in this case, at a conference. I reckon hardly anyone bothers with a cooked breakfast when they’re at home, though.’

Jenny laughed and agreed, but nevertheless donned her apron to add her own speciality dish of the morning to the mix. She’d decided that it would be appreciated by the guests if St Bede’s could offer them a slightly different option for those who were more adventurous; and so for the Great Jessies’ first breakfast, she had created for their delectation, what she was calling her Oxford Herb Omelette.

When she’d been researching any famous food items connected with Oxford, she had, of course, come across the world famous marmalade, pots of which were on the tables upstairs in hall, naturally, but also something called the Oxford sausage, which was a very delicate mix of meat and herbs. Some recipes claimed it went back only a mere few hundred years, whilst others grandiosely claimed it had medieval origins, when meat products were regularly heavily spiced or herbed in order to try and disguise the taste of less-than-fresh meat.

Dismissing the interesting if off-putting history, Jenny had seen at once how the herbs used in the Oxford speciality
sausage would lend themselves to an herb omelette, and had set about experimenting. Now she checked the chits, and saw that only six members had opted for it, as opposed to the full English, but she wasn’t disappointed. As word spread about her specials she had no doubt that the demand for them would soon pick up.

Humming happily to herself she reached for the organic, locally sourced eggs, cracked them into a bowl and began to beat. She’d got a really good price for them by offering to buy the farmer’s home-cured ham as well. She knew that if it was popular, then the regular chef was likely to continue using it, thus everyone won. As any wily cook knew, there were always crafty ways around a stringent budget. And herbs were dirt cheap as well.

So to speak.

As Jenny diced and gently crushed a variety of herbs in order to release their flavour, she felt calm, confident and happy. She had digs and a job set to last for the whole summer and, with luck, a new lover hovered on the horizon with which to share her evenings.

But, as it happens, that morning, she was not the only one taking stock of her life.

Laura Raines briefly took her eyes off the road to glance across and check out the lush, rolling green pastures of the Berkshire Downs. She smiled to herself, wondering what the green wellington set were doing this morning. Probably mucking out the horses and feeding the dogs and getting the kids off to school. Not necessarily in that order.

Although Laura herself had been born into a privileged, upper-middle-class background, she hadn’t ever really bought into the whole
Country and Sporting Life
thing, and was more than happy to live in the swanky area of a large northern city. She liked the shops, theatres, restaurants and galleries, and she
liked spending money. Most of it was her own, left to her by her dead papa. When he’d popped his clogs her mother, bless her, had promptly sold off most of his assets and had liberally dished out the proceeds to herself and her two children.

Now, as she headed south towards Hayling Island, and a discreet little hotel she knew, tucked away nicely out of sight and sound of anyone who might know her, she smiled happily.

Maurice was oblivious in Oxford, attending one of his awful conferences, which meant that she had five whole days before she had to get back to Harrogate and play the dutiful wife once more.

She met her steady, grey-eyed gaze in the driving mirror, and smiled grimly. Well, she wouldn’t have to do
that
for much longer, at any rate. With the twins having reached their landmark eighteenth birthday only last month, they were both set to start university in September, Michael to Durham, and Thomas to St Andrews. And with her sons fledging the nest, it was time to turf out the real cuckoo as well. And not before time.

Laura slowed to approach a roundabout and glanced down longingly at her mobile phone. She frowned when her gaze met the unfamiliar blue-coloured casing. Somewhere within the last few days, she’d mislaid her old phone, and had been forced to buy a quick replacement when a search in all the usual places had failed to bring it to light. No doubt she’d find it eventually, probably in the pocket of a seldom worn coat maybe, or a handbag. Even though she’d thought she’d checked in all of those places. Far more likely that the bloody thing would turn up somewhere really bizarre, like the back of the bloody fridge, or at the bottom of one her boots. It was exasperating to lose it, when so much of her life was stored on it, but that was life for you.

She half-reached for the new phone, that she was still trying to learn how to use properly, and then shook her head. No, it
was naughty to talk on the phone whilst driving. And wasn’t it illegal, too? She wasn’t sure, but she thought that it probably was. Besides, when she talked to Simon she wanted to give him her whole attention and not have to worry about running into the back of a lorry.

Just thinking about Simon Jenks gave Laura a soft glow that was part physical and part emotional.

At forty-eight Laura had never thought of herself as the kind of woman to have an affair. She’d married Maurice straight out of university, and had fallen pregnant just at a time when she’d been seriously thinking of divorcing him. The twins’ birth had scotched that idea, once and for all. She’d been brought up traditionally, and couldn’t help but still think of herself in the same way. She’d been raised in the Tudor belt in a prosperous Sussex town, where she had attended a private girls’ school, before just about scraping a place in Cheltenham Ladies College and going on to do a useless liberal arts BA at Reading. Afterwards, she wore all the right clothes, the latest perfume, and had found herself a decent job to pass the time and earn respectable brownie points whilst waiting to get married. Neither she nor her parents had ever expected anything else from her life.

Maurice had been her one act of defiance, since neither of her parents had particularly approved of him. Oh, he was personable and presentable enough, and had good manners, mixed well in society, and had brains enough not to embarrass anyone. But he had no money of his own, he spoke in a northern accent and he earned a living as a taxidermist, for pity’s sake.

Her father, to his dying day, had told everyone at the golf club that his son-in-law was in the ‘arts’.

Laura had to laugh softly to herself now.

Again, she glanced at her reflection, this time more anxiously, looking out for wrinkles and crows’ feet, and
wondering what had possessed her to waste her life and her youth on a man like Maurice.

Still, the quick check in the mirror assured her that she hadn’t lost everything, not yet, anyway. Forty-eight was no age these days, she told herself stoutly and, if the worst did come to the worst, well, she could always have cosmetic surgery. Luckily she took after her mother, physically, and had a tall, lithe figure that would not easily run to fat, even with approaching middle age and the dreaded spread that was said to accompany it. Even then, as a last resort, there were such things as tummy tucks and liposuction to fall back on.

Her skin looked fairly clear, and her hair had always been that ash blonde shade that kept on looking good. And if it had a little more help from a bottle nowadays, well, who was to know but herself and her hairdresser?

No, she was not too old to learn new tricks. Clearly, men still found her attractive anyway, even if Maurice had long since ceased to notice.

That thought brought her back, deliciously, to Simon, who was a whole decade younger than herself. Newly divorced and childless, he had come into her world like a shooting star, bringing life-changing chaos in his wake. Tall, dark and handsome, he was almost a walking cliché.

Until Simon, it had simply never occurred to Laura to be unfaithful. Although she hadn’t actively loved her husband for years, she’d become in some strange way accustomed to him. Her lifestyle was comfortable, her boys were her darlings, and she managed to keep busy, being both a lady-who-lunched and one of those people who was constantly taking academic courses that appealed to her in order to keep her fairly good mind still active and challenged.

But Simon had changed everything. Suddenly, just like that, almost overnight or so it seemed, her life with her husband had become intolerable. His foibles no longer faintly entertained
her, but actively grated. Her life felt sterile and emotionally barren. It was as if she’d suddenly had her eyes opened and the depth of the rut she was in had astonished and dismayed her. She began to see how much control she had lost of her life, and how much of it Maurice had suborned.

Not that it had taken her long to get the measure of her new husband. Right from the start of their married life, she’d quickly discovered that he liked chasing anything in a skirt. He also liked playing the big man, and he especially liked having a wife on his arm whose breeding and social status made him look so good to his cronies.

To begin with the infidelities had hurt and her ego had gradually shrunk. But, as time went on, she’d simply stopped caring. It had been then that she’d thought about divorce. Now, somehow, nearly twenty years had gone by without her noticing.

It had taken Simon coming into her life to prove once and for all just what a giant millstone Maurice was, and always had been, around her neck.

Well, she’d failed to rid herself of him once before, but there was nothing stopping her now. She smiled happily and turned on the radio, searching for a happy tune. She found a station playing hits from the sixties, and sang along to a half-forgotten tune about someone who was
truly sorry, Suzanne
.

As she continued to head for the south coast, an attractive, middle-aged woman, looking forward to spending time with her exciting new lover, she wondered what Simon was doing right that minute.

She hoped that he was making good time, for he was starting out a little later than herself and would be arriving in his own car. She giggled as the tune on the radio changed, and exhorted her now to
twist and shout.
With a bit of luck, she’d be doing both tonight, especially if Simon had followed all her instructions.

If he had, then later that night she would take him to her bed and show him some proper gratitude.

Jenny supposed it might be considered a bit unorthodox to check out how things were progressing in hall when people were still dining, but she had to keep an eye on things, didn’t she? And if there was a space going free at the table because one of the conference-goers was a late riser, or one of those poor unfortunate souls who couldn’t face an early morning meal, well then! Why shouldn’t she sit down at that empty place, and check out the quality of the food on offer for herself? It was part of her job to do a bit of quality control inspection, right?

So, when a scout approached her looking slightly puzzled, she ordered the full English and winked at her. Giggling, the young girl, clearly only there as a summer job, went to get her order, and Jenny turned a friendly face to the conference goer on her immediate right.

A stoop-shouldered older man, he was sipping orange juice and eyeing the toast rack thoughtfully.

‘I see you’ve ordered the omelette. How is it?’ she asked him cordially.

‘Wonderful. Cooked, but still moist in the centre. And I can’t quite pick out all the herbs. Basil, of course, rosemary, and I think a touch of thyme. And something else …’

‘Sage?’ she suggested.

‘Could be.’ The older man turned to her and smiled. ‘You’re not one of us. I know everyone in the society. Mind you, that’s not saying much nowadays. I swear I’ve seen a couple of people already milling about that I don’t know from Adam. I’d swear they weren’t members of the Greater Ribbles at all, but still, I suppose Vicki and Maurice know their business.’

Jenny smiled. So this sharp-eyed old man had already spotted both herself and Pippa Foxton as impostors, had he?

‘Damn! Caught me out,’ she said with a grin. ‘Don’t tell
anyone, but I’m just cadging a free breakfast. No, actually, I’m the cook, and I’m just checking that everything’s fine with the food and the service.’