Dying For a Cruise (8 page)

It all started off reasonably enough.

‘Lucas,’ Gabriel said, nodding amicably.

On the rail, the parrot scratched himself vigorously behind one ear. A small scarlet feather disengaged itself and floated on the breeze to settle on the water. No doubt it would puzzle quite a few anglers before the day was out.

Lucas turned, his smile widening innocently. ‘Gab,’ he said, and nodded back.

Gabriel leaned his back against the sturdy white-painted wooden rails, which came up almost to the lowest point of his shoulder blades. ‘Great trip,’ he said, feeling his way into it. He’d waited so long for this moment that he wanted to savour it. Besides, he never had been the kind of man to rush into things.

Lucas just caught something in his tone of voice, though, and his smile began to falter. He looked at his guest with a slightly quizzical air. ‘It always is,’ Lucas boasted. And it was no idle boast, either. Gabriel had taken four trips on the
Stillwater Swan
, and all four had been magnificent.

‘I was wondering if you ever took her to London?’ Gabriel said, studying his fingernails. But his eyes glittered with glee. ‘I think I will, you know. Perhaps this autumn.’

Lucas felt himself stiffening. ‘Not still singing that same old song, are yer, me old china?’ he said, and turned to face sideways. There was something about the way old Gabby was smiling that Lucas didn’t much like. ‘I’m getting a bit tired of telling you the
Swan
ain’t for sale. I’m thinking of getting some cards made up, saying just that, so that I can just hand one out whenever you bang on about it. Save my breath, like.’

Lucas had invited the Olneys on so many trips just because, like most people, he appreciated having his possessions coveted. And old Gabby had wanted the
Swan
from the moment he’d clapped eyes on her. All very gratifying, of course, but now the old sod was beginning to get on his nerves a bit with this bee he had in his bonnet.

Lucas made up his mind then and there that this was the last time he’d invite him on board.

‘Hmm.’ Gabriel continued to study his fingernails with exaggerated care. ‘I bought a cheque to exchange for this magnificent lady along with me, but the wife found it, you know, and tore it up. Jasmine doesn’t appreciate quality like I do. Can’t expect it of her, I suppose,’ he sighed. ‘She’s so typically middle class. It takes the upper classes, or, oddly enough, the lower classes—’ And he paused here to give Lucas a telling look ‘—to really appreciate quality.’

Lucas was too thick-skinned to be insulted. Instead of blowing up, as Gabriel had half expected, Lucas merely laughed.

‘Poor old Jasmine,’ he said, not altogether insincerely. Who could envy anyone married to a boring lech like Gabriel? ‘Still, it was just as well that she did tear the cheque up, you know. As I told you last time, and the time before that, the
Swan
isn’t for sale.’ Aand Lucas gave the wide, white rail-top an affectionate pat.

‘Ahh, but that was before,’ Gabriel said, and reached into his top, voluminous pocket to withdraw a rather chunky set of papers.

‘Before what?’ Lucas asked cautiously, his cockney twang becoming more pronounced as he began to feel decidedly uneasy.

‘Before I got a friend of mine from the MOD to copy me these,’ Gabriel said, and handed them over.

In the games room, Dorothy jumped the last of her husband’s pieces. ‘There. I knew you weren’t paying attention,’ she teased. ‘You can usually beat me hands down.’

She’d showered and washed her hair after her swim, and now her long locks fell around her shoulders like a gossamer cloud. She was wearing a periwinkle blue summer frock and David, for a moment pushing his troubles to one side, looked at her with appreciative eyes.

But before he could reply, they both nearly jumped out of their skins.

Out on the deck, Lucas Finch roared something so loudly and so furiously that he was all but incoherent. In the summer heat, every door, window and porthole on the
Swan
had been left open, allowing the outraged bellow to be heard in every room.

In the galley, Jenny dropped an onion, nearly cutting her finger into the bargain, and cursed rather roundly. She’d learned a rather interesting vocabulary of swear words from an admiral she’d once worked for. What curse or scandalous epithet that man hadn’t known hadn’t been worth hearing. He could even have taught Lucas’s parrot a thing or two.

She stooped down and picked up the fallen vegetable, put it in the sink to wash, and then wandered to the door of the galley. Outside, the main salon was empty, but the door to the games room stood open.

She could clearly see Dorothy and David Leigh, their mouths dropped comically open, staring out onto the port deck.

There, Jenny saw, Lucas Finch had Gabriel Olney by the throat.

Literally.

The cook firmed her lips grimly. She wanted none of
that
on
this
trip. She marched briskly across the games room, bypassing the Leighs, who seemed rooted to the spot in shock, and quick-stepped to the French windows.

By now, Gabriel Olney was turning rather purple. Rather like the shade of a good Victoria plum, Jenny thought inconsequentially.

She pulled open the door, just as Lucas Finch snarled.

‘Where did you get it, Olney?’ the cockney asked, all but shaking the older man, like a terrier might shake a rat.

Even his own parrot obviously thought this was a bit too much, for he was pacing agitatedly up and down the rail, saying ‘Who rattled your cage then? Aye, aye?’ over and over again, at a rather hysterical pitch.

‘Mr Finch, put that man down at once!’ Jenny barked, her voice cutting across the air like a schoolmistress’s voice cutting across a classroom of naughty children. It made Lucas drop his man in shock.

Gabriel began to gasp like a beached fish. His hand went automatically to his throat, and his eyes began to lose that rather distressingly bulged look.

‘I will not have that sort of thing,’ Jenny added, aware that she was sounding like an escapee from a rather bad British film, but not caring much. Her eyes glittered angrily. All too often in the past, she’d been minding her own business, just doing her job and cooking good food, when somebody decided to bump somebody else off. And the worst of it was, it was usually left to her to find out the who and why of it! Well, she was getting heartily sick of it.

‘Now, behave yourself,’ she finished, eyeing first the slack-jawed Lucas Finch, and then the fast-beginning-to-rally Gabriel Olney.

‘Finch, you … you …’ he spluttered, and Jenny turned on him with a gimlet gaze.

She raised one finger in his direction. ‘Mr Olney,’ she said. Just that. Nothing more. Gabriel Olney stared at her, then fumed at Finch, then began to stroke his moustache.

The parrot coughed and began to thoroughly inspect his claws for dirt.

Jenny, once assured that peace had been resumed, nodded, turned and left, glancing curiously at the Leighs as she did so. She couldn’t help but notice that both of them looked delighted at Gabriel Olney’s obvious physical discomfort.

She walked to the galley, poured a glass of lemonade and returned with it. Without a word she handed it to the now silent Gabriel, who, after a startled pause, took it and tentatively swallowed, wincing at the soreness of his throat. He managed to croak rather desultory thanks.

She once more bypassed the quiet but gleeful Leighs, and returned to her galley and the basting lamb.

And that, she thoroughly hoped, was the end of that.

It was, of course, something of a forlorn hope.

Jenny sprinkled some thyme onto the top of the dishes of cold cucumber and watercress soup, and handed the tray across to Francis.

Francis carried it solemnly to the sideboard in the dining room, and glanced poker-faced at the guests.

The table had been covered with a pristine white cloth. In the centre rested sparkling silver candlesticks with tall, elegantly tapering green candles. Around the base was a froth of pink, red and white carnations. Deep red napkins rested beside places set with green Worcester plates. Even if he said it himself, Francis thought smugly, he had done a wonderful job with the table. Small crystal finger bowls filled with scented water matched the pattern of the crystal goblets.

It was a lovely scene, and the guests sat around it were as elegant as the table. The ladies, catching the spirit of the cruise, had all changed into their best finery.

Dorothy Leigh, of course, would look stunning in a sack, but was wearing a silver and gold lamé evening dress and radiated beauty and health. In a different way, the scarlet-garbed and dark-headed Jasmine Olney looked equally eye-catching, but was aided by a stunning diamond necklace, which she wore with undeniable panache.

The men, including Lucas, were all dressed in tuxedos.

It was a pity, Francis thought, that none of them were talking.

Only the gentle ‘clink’ of Francis’s soup plates being distributed, broke the silence.

Dorothy Leigh was the first brave soul to attempt to do anything about it.

‘I had a wonderful swim this afternoon,’ she said, to nobody in particular, and lifted her spoon for a tentative sip of soup. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought about cold soups – she could only ever think of soup and imagine steaming broth – but this was delicious. It had a lovely flavour – not cloying, but not wishy-washy either. It was clear and deliciously tangy. ‘Mmm, this is lovely,’ she said, prompting Lucas to half-heartedly reach for his own spoon.

Only Gabriel ate with a hearty appetite, and if he occasionally winced when swallowing, it didn’t seem to annoy him too much. In fact, he was looking almost unbearably smug. Not that he was openly grinning. Nor had he yet said a word. But everyone, especially David Leigh (who seemed to have particularly sensitive antennae as far as Olney was concerned) sensed a very strong feeling of
gloating
emanating from the man. It seemed to waft from him in a particularly noxious but invisible cloud. It was almost unbearable for him to sit still for it, when all he wanted to do was launch himself across the table and smash his fist into that oily face. Smash and smash and smash….

Francis turned, glanced once at Lucas, and almost paused at the expression on his employer’s face. He recovered at once though and carried on, walking back to the galley in soft-footed silence, but a long, almost telepathic look had already passed between them.

Dorothy noticed it especially.

She’d remarked to her husband on their earlier trip on the
Stillwater Swan
that Francis and Lucas made a very odd pair. Lucas was just so cockney, and Francis was so proper. They should have been oil and water, but weren’t. They seemed to
conspire
against the world in some odd sort of way. It was almost spooky.

Now she took another sip of soup, and tried again to break the deadlock.

‘I must say, I really do like this,’ she said stiltedly. ‘You wouldn’t have thought our cook would have had such a subtle hand, would you? Not to look at her, I mean,’ she laughed. ‘When I went for my swim this afternoon, I saw her sitting out on the deck, and I could have sworn she was asleep.’

‘Probably stuffed herself on all the leftovers from lunch,’ Jasmine said cattily, and totally inaccurately.

Jenny always prepared a plate of food for herself at the same time as she prepared the plates for the guests.

Jenny was no mug.

In the galley, Francis returned, his face thoughtful. Something was up, that was for sure. He’d never seen Lucas look so upset and uneasy before.

Just then, Captain Lester came through from the bridge. The
Swan
was moored not a mile from Chimney, and he accepted the plate of soup the cook gave him with a somewhat distracted air. He looked at Francis.

‘Any idea why Lucas wants me and Brian to join them—’ He nodded in the salon’s direction ‘—after dinner, for drinks?’

Francis frowned. First of all, he had no idea what Lucas intended, which was a normally totally unheard of development. Lucas always told him everything.
But everything
. And secondly, Lucas never asked the captain or O’Keefe to mingle with the guests at dinner time. During the day, yes. But never during the more formal evening meal. It broke the atmosphere of elegance and olde-worlde dining that Lucas strove to create, and which he himself enjoyed so much.

‘It must be something unusual,’ Tobias Lester added – a shade uneasily, Jenny thought. ‘I said as much to Brian when he asked us.’

‘When was this?’ she asked automatically, then could have kicked herself for asking. After all, it was none of her business.

‘About five.’

After the scene with Gabriel Olney then, she thought, before she could stop herself.

She sighed as she watched Francis depart then return with hardly touched soup bowls. She stared at the bowls grimly and handed over stuffed crabs on a bed of rice.

Even Tobias, usually a hearty eater, couldn’t do the crab she handed him justice. She made up a tray for the engineer, intending to take it to him later. Perhaps
he
, at least, would appreciate it.

The cook became grimmer and grimmer as the evening wore on, and the plates kept returning, barely picked at.

What was wrong with these people? she fumed. She went to all the trouble of creating a multi-course masterpiece of contrasting tastes, textures, sights and smells, all of which were culinary delights, and they didn’t even have the good manners to eat them.

It was enough to make her spit tin-tacks.

Well, she’d see they ate the baked Alaska, if she had to ladle it out herself and spoon feed the lot of them!

So it was that Jenny Starling herself brought in the towering, impressive dessert and put it on the sideboard for Francis to serve.

Tobias Lester was asked to send for the engineer, and Lucas Finch, looking curiously stiff-faced and unnaturally silent, poured a dozen glasses of champagne. David and Dorothy Leigh accepted their glasses, looking merely bewildered. Jasmine took hers, and peered over the rim of it at the sour-faced Brian O’Keefe, giving him an openly and blatantly smouldering look. Lucas’s hands shook as he held his own glass.