In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

After lunch Belinda paraded through the house in her bloomers. I wasn't sure whether this was designed to shock Clara or flirt with Bamey. Knowing that gentleman’s personality I felt that she was playing with fire by encouraging him, but perhaps she already knew that.

“I've asked Theresa’s maid to find you a pair,” Belinda said. “Then I can teach you to ride a bicycle too. It’s a skill every young woman should possess.”

“I'd dearly like to leam,” I said.

I waited until she had departed for the coach house and Clara had gone for her afternoon rest before I headed for the kitchen. A large, round-faced colored woman was sitting in a rocking chair by the open window, fanning herself with a newspaper as she rocked. Beyond the kitchen in the scullery I could hear the clatter of pots and pans as the scullery maid washed the dishes.

As I tapped politely on the door, the woman looked up and scrambled to her feet.

“It’s all right, Cook. Please don't get up,” I said. “I'm Miss Gaffney, the master’s cousin, and I just came to tell you how delicious I thought the lunch was.”

Cook’s elderly face crinkled into a smile. “Well, isn't that kind of you, miss. I have to admit I do make a good, smooth white sauce and the master tells me my apple crumble is the best he ever tasted.”

“It certainly was,” I said. “I understand you've been with the family a long time.”

“All my life, miss. I started in the kitchen with Miz Theresa’s family in Virginia, and when Miz Theresa got married, they asked me if I'd like to go with her as cook. Of course I said yes. The chance to run my own kitchen doesn't come around every day.”

“So you're one of the few servants they kept after the tragedy,” I said. “I heard that they sacked everyone.”

That’s right, miss,” Cook said, her face growing serious. “Me'n Soames, we were the only two they kept on. Well, they knew they could trust us, having been with the family for so long. And on ac-count of the master particularly liking my cookin'.” She laughed at this joke, her large body heaving silently. They take me every-where with them. Why, they even took me when Miz Theresa was poorly and needed to go away to rest.”

“After the tragedy, you mean?”

“When Miss Eileen was expected,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly at the talk of such intimate matters. “She couldn't take the cold in New York so the master sent her to Florida for the winter. I was the only one she tmsted to go with her.” She gave a little smirk of satisfaction. That’s coz I know which side my bread is buttered.”

“The Senator and Mrs. Flynn are lucky to have such a good cook,” I said.

She preened then. They even take me with them to Washington when they leave the rest of the servants behind. I've cooked for all kinds of famous folks, you know. Senators, generals—”

“Have you really? How wonderful.” I looked suitably impressed.

“I'll tell you another who always praised my cooking,” she said confidentially. “That devil. Albert Morell, the chauffeur. You heard about him, of course.”

“Oh yes. We heard all about him, even in Ireland,” I said.

“I warned Annie Lomax enough times,” Cook said, shaking her head. “She was the child’s nursemaid who was sweet on him. I said to her, You watch yourself, my girl.' If he was a sailor he'd have a girl in every port. He wasn't Irish but he could charm the hind leg off a donkey, just like the master can. Always hanging about in this kitchen, praising my cooking. Your food is fit for the gods, Beulah.' That’s what he'd say. And I was fool enough to spoil him—save him tidbits from the master’s table, you know.”

“You said he wasn't Irish,” I interrupted. “What was he? I think I read he was bom locally?”

“Upstate New York, around Albany way, and he said his folks came from England. But you know what I thought?” She leaned closer to me, although we two were alone in the kitchen. “I always thought he had Italian blood in him. He had those dark flashing eyes and his skin in summertime used to go almost as dark as mine.”

Of course, I thought. There was something about the name that hadn't fit. What if it was originally Alberto Morellii I'd have to look into that.

“I should have known he was rotten to the core,” Cook went on. “I should have suspected when he took one of my meringues. We were having a dinner party that night and I had made twenty-four meringue nests to be filled with strawberries and cream. When I came to fill them there were only twenty-three and then Fanny, the scullery maid, said she'd seen Bertie crunching something as he walked through the kitchen.”

“Did he always come and go through the kitchen?” I asked. I looked out of the window. The kitchen garden began after a thin strip of lawn. I could make out the thatched roof of the guest cottage at the rear of the kitchen garden, then, to the right, there was a clear view of the gravel drive and the carriage house beyond.