Partridges, Pear Trees, and Projectiles: A Lady Persephone Victorian Christmas Cozy Mystery by R.B. Marshall

Author:R.B. Marshall [Marshall, R.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aye Alba Publishing

Chapter Sixteen

When I entered the dining room for lunch, I noticed with a sigh of relief that Baron Panmure was already seated. That meant I could position myself at the other end of the long, rectangular table and avoid having to sit anywhere near the odious man. And then, if my luck persisted, Glendinning or my aunt would be the next to arrive and we could quietly discuss the investigation.

This meal, as breakfast, was to be eaten as guests arrived rather than at a single time. The staff, directed by Harkness our butler, would serve us bowls of soup and then fragrant kedgeree from huge silver tureens on the sideboard.

Unfortunately, the next person to arrive after me was Dickson Urquhart, father’s business partner, who eased himself into the seat to my left. He was a distinguished-looking man of medium height, with greying hair swept elegantly across his forehead, and a tidy moustache like a lampshade over his top lip.

Although he’d worked with my father on various business deals for some years now—including the latest ill-fated one—this was the first time he’d visited our house, and the first time I’d properly met him. “Lady Persephone,” he greeted me, as a footman placed a bowl of broth in front of him.

“Mr Urquhart.” I reached for a piece of bread, breaking it into little chunks on my side plate. “Have you been enjoying the shooting party so far? Apart from yesterday’s events, of course?”

“Why yes. Your father has made a great effort to be sociable, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Then I looked sideways at the man. One could take what he said as praise, or as faint praise. Which had he meant it to be?

In the meantime, Urquhart had some steaming soup on his spoon. For just a second—so brief that I’m sure nobody else noticed—he examined it critically, before putting it into his mouth.

Was the silver not shiny enough? Or was there not enough barley in the broth? Just what was this man’s problem? A little niggle of anger was brewing in my belly. Here he was in the Highlands, eating my father’s food, drinking his whisky, and getting a free shooting holiday in addition to all that, in the hope that he would recommend my father’s new enterprise to his friends and colleagues. None of the other guests was complaining—or at least, if they were, it wasn’t within my earshot.

“Good afternoon, Persephone my dear. And Mr Urquhart.” Right at that moment, my aunt arrived in a cloud of rose scent and chiffon, seating herself at my other side.

“Lady Forbes-Stuart.” The businessman inclined his head.

“I hear the broth is absolutely delicious,” my aunt pronounced, picking up her spoon as a bowl was placed in front of her. “Earl Menteith was raving about it, and he has a personal chef all the way from Paris, did you know?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. Had she heard what Urquhart had just said, and seen his expression? It certainly sounded like she was responding to his disapproving look.

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