marmalade (and adding just a touch of much-needed lime juice), she wondered why Tobias Lester would be willing to gossip about Jasmine Olney, but not about her husband.
And then she promptly reminded herself that it was none of her business, after all, and began to industriously chop some spring onions.
This was, after all, her holiday too.
She had no idea then that, in her other role as a reluctant but effective amateur detective, it was going to become something of a busman’s holiday before the weekend was over.
FOUR
J ENNY HEARD THE engines throb into life and quickly finished the washing up. She left the crockery to drain and wiped her soapy hands on a towel as she went. She left the galley, moving through the main salon, and then stepped out onto the starboard side deck. There she walked to the rails and watched in pleasurable satisfaction as the riverbank began to fall away.
There was nothing quite like that first moment when a boat left the dock, be it an ocean liner about to cross the mighty Atlantic, or a river boat about to cruise through the English countryside. There was always that little tingle of anticipation, that atavistic sense of more than mere physical movement. You were afloat, and who knew where the tides of fate might take you?
Slowly, virtually silently, and with a smoothness that rivalled silk, the Stillwater Swan took to the centre of the River Thames, her course heading due east, towards the dreaming spires of Oxford. And with the sun facing her bridge, both of the Swan ’s side decks were darkened in a comfortable shade. As this fact had been noted by others than herself, Jenny could just faintly hear the other guests on the port side, chattering in excitement.
The houses and cottages of Buscot were slowly left behind, and rows of willows, weeping willows and ash began to crowd down to the banks. A pair of mute swans watched their namesake with unimpressed dark avian eyes and ruffled their feathers slightly.
Jenny pulled a wooden but comfortable and – more importantly, substantial – deckchair nearer to the railings and sat down. A touch gingerly, it was true. In the past, she’d had some rather unfortunate dealings with deckchairs. It was a sad indictment of the new millennium, she’d always thought, that more than a decade into it, nobody had yet learned how to make proper garden furniture.
A pleasant, cooling breeze rippled across the water. At the side of the river, and well out of the main current, lime-green river reed swayed gently with the passing movement of the boat, whilst yellow-flowering native water irises grew in rich profusion in the margins at the banks. Water crowsfoot, rife with tiny white flowers, flowed past the boat just below the surface of the water, like the adorned hair of some fabulous water maiden. The turquoise and orange flash of a kingfisher darted into a bank, no doubt with an offering of food for hungry chicks.
Every now and then, on the bank, tall, amethyst plumes of a native wildflower Jenny couldn’t put a name to pointed proudly to the sky. And in the open meadows, cattle that had come down to drink shied nervously away from the large, white boat, with its turning wheels and strange, melodious whistle, watching it go past with liquid brown velvet eyes.
In a world of traffic-jammed motorways, mobile phones, email, computers and stress, it was like taking a step back into the past. Jenny could have stayed there all morning. It was one of the very rare times when she could almost wish she didn’t have food to prepare.
Behind her, through the open French doors that led into the salon, she heard voices, however, and sighed deeply. She got reluctantly to her feet, giving the passing scenery a last wistful glance. They were, she knew, due to stop near the village of Kelmscott for lunch, which was not that many hours away.
Time to work.
Besides, Jenny had no wish to overhear anybody’s conversation. She still had vivid memories of a birthday
And then she promptly reminded herself that it was none of her business, after all, and began to industriously chop some spring onions.
This was, after all, her holiday too.
She had no idea then that, in her other role as a reluctant but effective amateur detective, it was going to become something of a busman’s holiday before the weekend was over.
FOUR
J ENNY HEARD THE engines throb into life and quickly finished the washing up. She left the crockery to drain and wiped her soapy hands on a towel as she went. She left the galley, moving through the main salon, and then stepped out onto the starboard side deck. There she walked to the rails and watched in pleasurable satisfaction as the riverbank began to fall away.
There was nothing quite like that first moment when a boat left the dock, be it an ocean liner about to cross the mighty Atlantic, or a river boat about to cruise through the English countryside. There was always that little tingle of anticipation, that atavistic sense of more than mere physical movement. You were afloat, and who knew where the tides of fate might take you?
Slowly, virtually silently, and with a smoothness that rivalled silk, the Stillwater Swan took to the centre of the River Thames, her course heading due east, towards the dreaming spires of Oxford. And with the sun facing her bridge, both of the Swan ’s side decks were darkened in a comfortable shade. As this fact had been noted by others than herself, Jenny could just faintly hear the other guests on the port side, chattering in excitement.
The houses and cottages of Buscot were slowly left behind, and rows of willows, weeping willows and ash began to crowd down to the banks. A pair of mute swans watched their namesake with unimpressed dark avian eyes and ruffled their feathers slightly.
Jenny pulled a wooden but comfortable and – more importantly, substantial – deckchair nearer to the railings and sat down. A touch gingerly, it was true. In the past, she’d had some rather unfortunate dealings with deckchairs. It was a sad indictment of the new millennium, she’d always thought, that more than a decade into it, nobody had yet learned how to make proper garden furniture.
A pleasant, cooling breeze rippled across the water. At the side of the river, and well out of the main current, lime-green river reed swayed gently with the passing movement of the boat, whilst yellow-flowering native water irises grew in rich profusion in the margins at the banks. Water crowsfoot, rife with tiny white flowers, flowed past the boat just below the surface of the water, like the adorned hair of some fabulous water maiden. The turquoise and orange flash of a kingfisher darted into a bank, no doubt with an offering of food for hungry chicks.
Every now and then, on the bank, tall, amethyst plumes of a native wildflower Jenny couldn’t put a name to pointed proudly to the sky. And in the open meadows, cattle that had come down to drink shied nervously away from the large, white boat, with its turning wheels and strange, melodious whistle, watching it go past with liquid brown velvet eyes.
In a world of traffic-jammed motorways, mobile phones, email, computers and stress, it was like taking a step back into the past. Jenny could have stayed there all morning. It was one of the very rare times when she could almost wish she didn’t have food to prepare.
Behind her, through the open French doors that led into the salon, she heard voices, however, and sighed deeply. She got reluctantly to her feet, giving the passing scenery a last wistful glance. They were, she knew, due to stop near the village of Kelmscott for lunch, which was not that many hours away.
Time to work.
Besides, Jenny had no wish to overhear anybody’s conversation. She still had vivid memories of a birthday
Similar Books
