JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chapter14 (second installment: part 3)

iii

Claire looked up at what she’d always considered was the elegance of Marlborough House, marvelling at the beauty of it; the ivied gables seemed to give the house an air of grace she felt was missing from many of the other Manor houses in the area. That’s because Marlborough House is the oldest, she told herself. It was a distinction she’d never taken into consideration before, but she knew it made a difference when you worked in a place like this. She’d told Greggson as much when she’d first made arrangements two weeks earlier to bake three dozen pies. Artie had insisted she make the effort, and while Greggson had been reluctant to accept her help at first—and what cook would want her in their kitchen, she wondered?—she’d explained exactly that to Artie, and a week later Greggson had reluctantly agreed.

She’d never been inside the other houses before—other than in their kitchens—and thought if she could befriend one of the housemaids she’d be more likely to hear rumours as to where the Skull was hidden. Artie said in order to find Cromwell’s Skull, he needed to have an idea as to where to look. It was on her, Artie said. All she had to do was get him on the pitch, and he’d figure it out. She said she didn’t want to do it, but he’d insisted. Artie could be insistent, she told herself as she presented herself at the kitchen door.

“Miss Hansen!” Mrs. Unrah, one of the under cooks greeted her, her smile lighting up her round face. She had a cherubic look about her—short, squat, always laughing—and stepped aside, reaching out to take the canvas bag Claire was carrying.

“Let me help you.”

“If it’s quite alright, I brought my knives with me,” Claire smiled, giving her the bag.

“It’s always best to have your own things in the kitchen.”

“Glad to have you on board, Claire!” Greggson called out and she wondered if the man was being sincere, or simply playing lip service for the sake of the staff.

And what did Artie say to change his mind?

“I’ll believe that after you’ve paid me,” she laughed.

“And how many of those delicious pies are you contracted for? And how is business, by the way?”

“Rather slow, right now,” she confessed, hanging her coat up on the hook behind the door. “And I’m grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me. But there’s a certain freedom to it, being on your own, I’ll give you that. The hours are long—endlessly long—but I’m doing it for myself, so there’s that to be said about it.”

She reached for an apron at the same time, tying it about her waist.

“And Reggie? How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him hawking his wares about of late.”

“That’s because I’m putting them in my pies!” she laughed. “But I told you last week, half the crop was ruined with that rain two weeks ago, so he’s taken the opportunity to nip off to London, with a promise to stop off at Okehampton on the way back.”


“Okehampton? And what’s there?”

“I want to be opening up my own shop,” she explained. “Saunders has pigs and I want one for next spring.”

“Larry Saunders? The Communist?”

“The same.”

“And London?”

“Ah, Mr. Greggson, you know how it goes. A man gets a notion into his head and there’s no beating it out of him.,” she smiled, taking her knives out of the bag and spreading them on one of the three chopping blocks in the kitchen. “He thinks the banks in London are somehow more reputable, and as a result, more solid than most others, and that’s that.”

“Good on him, then, good on him. And I wish you all the best with your endeavours, but remember, I’ll always hold a place open in my kitchen for you,” he smiled.

“You know that’d never work,” she laughed. “How long do you think it’d it be before I’d be wanting to make it my kitchen?”

“True enough!” he laughed.

“Is this block good enough?”

“Over by the window might be better suited for you. There’s more light.”

There was a commotion at the door and five negroes filed in—four men and a woman—three of them carrying instruments. They stepped in and looked about, their smiles fading as they faced the kitchen staff.

“We in the right place?” one of the men asked, looking at Claire.

“I was told to expect a quartet,” Greggson pointed out.

“They’s always forgettin’ we got us a singer now,” the man was quick to say, nodding his head at the only female in the group.

“All the same, you’re early,” Greggson added.

“No knowin’ on how long it’d take for us to get here,” the man explained. “You can’t fault a man makin’ allowances for unforeseen circumstances, can you?”

“Well, there’s a room off to the back where you can put your things. Do try to stay out of the way, though.”

“I can help if you like?” the woman spoke up.

“Help? What can you do?”

“Anything you need me to do,” she grinned. “I can clean the ‘tatoes for y’all, or whatever else needs doin’.”

That was the moment Chernetsov walked into kitchen. He paused as he looked about, smiling briefly, somehow still looking confused. The women were quick to give a polite curtsey seeing him, and Claire followed their example as Greggson stepped forward, wiping his hands on his apron, smiling politely and bobbing his head.

“Good to see you this morning, sir,” he said amiably enough. “I trust everything’s in order, so far?”

“So far, so good; isn’t that the expression, Greggson?”

“Indeed it is, sir,” he laughed. “A holdover from the Big War, I believe.”

“Is it now? Well, that’s something I learned today then, isn’t it?” He looked at the five Negroes standing at the door. “I thought you were supposed to be a quartet?” he said, looking at the tallest man in the group.

“We got us a singer.”

“I’m sure Greggson will take good enough care of you, right Greggson?”

“Just about to settle them in, sir.”

“And Miss Hansen? Good to see you here. When Greggson suggested hiring you to make your famous pies for the night, I told him not to let the opportunity slip. I so enjoy your pies whenever I see that man of yours about, selling your wares.”

“Thank you, sir. Very kind of you. I’m happy to hear that, I am.”

And then there was a horrifying scream in the foyer.

Claire went running out as fast as everyone else. She was sickened at the sight of the man on the floor, his body twisted as though someone had dropped a wet string of noodles on the floor. She looked up at the swinging chandelier above and clearly saw the skull hidden in among the lights, disappearing from view as the pendular arc of the chandelier slowed. She looked at the person standing beside her.

It was the Negro singer.

“There’s something hidden up there.”

“In the chandelier? I didn’t see anything,” Claire replied.

“No? I looked up because I saw you looking up.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Who am I gonna tell, woman? Who’s gonna believe anything I say?”