Murder with Majesty

by Myers, Amy

  “Who is it?” Thomas Entwhistle asked sharply.

  Auguste gulped as he rushed after Entwhistle to help remove the antlers.

  The dead man was Arthur, late Lord Montfoy.

  Chapter Five

  Chief Inspector Egbert Rose did not care for the country. He missed the compact warmth of Highbury, the street lamps glowing on wet streets, the shops whose goods overflowed on to the pavements: brooms, brushes, vegetables, books. He even missed Mr Pinpole’s appalling butchery: the carcasses hung in rows as a threat to every decent well-behaved stomach, and the pies which assembled themselves like cannon balls ready to attack the unwary. Edith Rose, unfortunately, was devoted to Mr Pinpole.

  Even less did Egbert like being summoned to murder scenes where His Majesty King Edward VII was also present, especially when His Majesty was — if he interpreted Auguste’s excited tones correctly — not officially present in England, but was popularly supposed to be in France. He had enough problems with Special Branch at the best of times, and he had been somewhat surprised that on this occasion it had been only too eager that he take up the formal invitation from the Chief Constable of Kent to investigate the strange proceedings at Farthing Court.

  He climbed down from the railway train at Cranbrook and looked around with little enthusiasm. From what he had heard, Cranbrook was a small town with a mill, houses and shops; what he had seen as the train steamed in, was fields, woods and narrow lanes. An occasional sheep condescended to raise its head at the disturbance to its grazing life. Egbert braced himself to meet the welcoming party awaiting him once his ticket was duly punched by the station porter. Three uniformed men, one not — and one of the uniformed men he recognised.

  “Morning, sir.”

  It was Naseby. Of course it was. This was Kent. Wherever he went in Kent, Naseby pursued him. Fifteen years now, and Naseby was drawn to his impending presence like a bloodhound.

  “Ah, Naseby,” Egbert replied cordially. “Where’s Monsieur Didier? I was expecting to see him here.”

  Naseby’s face went blank. The unwelcome news that that Frenchie was around again had convinced him that he was intent on ruining Inspector Naseby’s career. “This is police business, sir.”

  Egbert shook his head gravely. “His Majesty won’t like it if you’ve forbidden him to come, Naseby. They are related, after all.”

  Rose was in fact uncertain as to how much help Auguste was likely to be in this case. He was worried that Auguste seemed obsessed by the belief that Thomas Entwhistle was Gregorin, and that a murder on the premises confirmed this thesis. Usually he trusted Auguste’s instincts; on the question of Gregorin he did not. He preferred to believe Chesnais who knew Gregorin was safely in Paris. Unless he had flown over in the Messrs Wright’s flying machine just to commit this murder, Gregorin had to be excluded from suspicion.

  Naseby was now with Maidstone Borough Police. The other officers were introduced to him as the Chief Constable of the Kent County Constabulary, the inspector in charge of Cranbrook sub-division, and the fourth, in civilian clothes, who appeared to be doing his best to attain utter anonymity, was one of the two sergeants in the recently formed Kent CID. Detective Sergeant Harold Lyme seemed to Egbert to prefer mysterious lynx-eyed looks to contributing to the discussion, since he communicated only in monosyllables.

  Rose looked unenthusiastically out from the carriage upon the delights first of Cranbrook and then of Frimhurst village. The latter was subdued by recent standards. News must have spread about the murder of their former lord of the manor, for there was a preponderance of black in the villagers’ attire. Rose thought over Auguste’s explanation that the bankrupt Lord Montfoy was no longer lord of the manor — save in the eyes of his wedding party — and that this Thomas Entwhistle had lent him Farthing Court in pursuance of the deception. It was a rum situation — and His Majesty was, according to Auguste, right in the middle of it. As soon as he had finished at the scene of the crime, and rescued Auguste from the oblivion to which Naseby had consigned him, he would have to speak to the king’s detective, Sweeney, and to His Majesty. To cap his disapproval of the country, Farthing Court and all things royal, it began to rain.

  *

  News of the murder had indeed reached the village. It reached it very early, as Alf Spade burst in to the White Dragon where Bert was taking breakfast with the young Wickmans. There was no sign of Bessie, but the resulting pandemonium brought her down in her nightgown.

  “He’s dead,” Alf bawled at her. “Lord Montfoy. Old Herne got him.”

  “How?” Bessie asked sharply, leaning over the banisters for once oblivious of the increased display of her mature charms.

  “Shot by old Herne, he was.”

  “He can’t be,” she shrieked.

  “Don’t be so daft, Alf,” Bert grunted. “You ain’t telling us there really is an old Herne, eh?”

  Alf looked obstinate. “His horns was over Montfoy’s head, and his lordship were tied to the maypole.”

  “You said shot, not suffocated,” Bessie said impatiently, coming down the stairs. “You didn’t mean that, did you?”

  “An arrow through his heart.”

  “Go on with you,” Bert jeered.

  “I saw him. The police have been sent for.”

  Bessie sat down heavily at the table, for once bereft of words, and it was left to Bert to be decisive. “Call ’em all here, Alf. Now. We’ve got to talk this over.”

  Alf’s voice bawling down the village street was as good as a town crier’s, and Adelaide, young Harry and even Jacob and Aggie obeyed the summons. Aggie was openly jubilant. “Didn’t I say ’twere wrong to mock the fairies?”

  “Keep quiet, you daft old ha’p’orth,” Bert growled.

  “She be right,” Jacob weighed in. “Old Herne did walk. Just as I said he would. Farthing’s lord be crowned with horns.”

  “Montfoy’s not the lord,” Bert pointed out.

  “He was to us,” Jacob said sullenly.

  “We’ve got to stick with it,” Bessie suddenly contributed. “Eh? No telling the police about Squire Entwhistle’s plans. Everything we done, we got to keep doing, till this is over.”

  “Why?” Bert was astounded.

  “We don’t want them policemen thinking we had anything to do with it, do we?”

  No one disagreed with her.

  “Old Herne done it,” Bessie said forcefully. “He walks every twelvemonth, don’t he, Jacob?”

  Jacob looked scared. “Reckon he does,” he muttered. “Well then,” Bessie smirked. “That’s that then.”

  Even Aggie didn’t dare say that the fairies usually had the last word.

  *

  “Murder, Tom?” His Majesty looked bleakly at his kidneys, eggs, bacon, kedgeree and pigeon breast. Suddenly they failed to attract him. “But I’m here. Sure poor old Arthur didn’t do it himself?”

  “The circumstances suggest otherwise, Your Majesty, and your personal detectives from Special Branch agreed the police should be summoned. The local police are guarding the body now and a Scotland Yard Chief Inspector is on his way from London.”

  “Not that fellow Rose?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  “I hope not. He’s worse than a bulldog once he gets on a case.” He paused. “I have to be in Paris tomorrow.” His voice had a hopeful note.

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas hesitated deferentially. “With Your Majesty’s consent, it could be arranged.”

  His Majesty brightened immediately. “I don’t want to dishonour poor old Arthur, but it’s not as though I have anything useful to tell the Yard. On the whole, it’s best I don’t bother the police. I wouldn’t want to take up their time unnecessarily.” He eyed Thomas. “You can tell him anything he needs to know about Arthur and Farthing Court.” This was not what Thomas had had in mind, but he was a fast thinker. “We had planned I should accompany you, Sir, but I realise it’s better I remain here. There are the funeral and the inquest to consider. We can p
ostpone our own arrangements. Perhaps later this month?”

  “Splendid. And you’ll do the explaining to Horace and Gertrude. Lady Montfoy, I should say. Poor girl.” His Majesty frowned. “Her wedding night.”

  “I gather from the new Lord Montfoy that Mr Pennyfather discovered the truth about Arthur’s finances yesterday afternoon.”

  His Majesty’s brow wrinkled. Mornings were not his best time of day, but even so the unwelcome thought that there might be some connection between this fact and the death of Arthur Lord Montfoy forced its way through. “In that case, I’m definitely leaving.”

  Thomas Entwhistle nodded. “I will arrange it now, sir.” He bowed and began to retreat, but was stopped by the roar of His Majesty’s indignant voice. “It’s that dashed Didier’s fault! Wherever he goes there’s a murder. I’m beginning to think he carries them out himself. I’ll have to do something about it. Can’t have a murderer in the family.”

  Thomas smiled gently. “Leave it to me, sir.”

  *

  “Well?” Egbert Rose regarded Auguste balefully. Naseby and his colleagues had escorted him to the maypole, and expounded their own theories ad nauseam, which ranged from ‘a tramp’ to ‘a poacher’ or a vague ‘someone in the village with a grudge against him’; the chief constable and inspector had returned to their headquarters, duty done, and with difficulty Rose had persuaded Naseby and the monosyllabic Sergeant Lyme to arrange an office and accommodation within Farthing Court, and to explain to those guests who had remained overnight that they would be enjoying at least one more luncheon at the house. Doctor’s and photographer’s tasks had been carried out on the now heavily trampled ground round the maypole, and six local constables were mounting guard, as the body was at last untied for removal to the mortuary for a post-mortem.

  Auguste explained as much as he could of what had been happening while trying to avert his eyes, and willing his imagination to believe the limp figure the straw-made carnival figure of fun it so closely resembled. The deer’s head which was now being removed carefully to test for fingerprints made a mockery of death; who could have hated Lord Montfoy so much that that final scornful touch was added?

  Other sets of deer’s antlers, left over from the Horn Dance, lay disregarded to one side, as the head was taken away and a constable stood guard over a bow lying nearby them, obviously thrown down after the arrow had been shot. Auguste stared at the bow as though its slender wood would provide vital evidence of Lord Montfoy’s murderer.

  “You were right,” Egbert continued. “There was trouble brewing, though not in the way you thought. Nothing to do with Gregorin.”

  “How do you know that, Egbert?”

  “Common sense, Auguste.” Egbert decided to nip this obsession in the bud right away, otherwise he would get no real help from Auguste. “Why, even if you are right about his identity, should Gregorin kill Montfoy? He’d be putting paid to the foul plans you think he has for politically embarrassing His Majesty.”

  Auguste hesitated, then plunged. “Suppose the deer’s head was put on first, and Gregorin thought it was me? I am much the same build as Montfoy and one dinner-suited man is much like another.”

  Egbert stared at him, even more concerned. “Why on earth should he?”

  “On Sunday evening he mistook me for Montfoy from behind. Suppose he did the same last night?”

  “It’s Montfoy’s front he’d have seen last night, not his back.”

  There must be a flaw in this argument, but Auguste reluctantly conceded Egbert was right in one respect. He must concentrate on facts. He made one last attempt. “You don’t think it an odd coincidence that I tell you a professional assassin is present and, lo and behold, there is a murder?”

  “One could say the same of you: you are here and there’s a murder. It follows you around.” Egbert looked pleased with this bon mot, enraging Auguste.

  “I had nothing to do with this murder.”

  “You’ve no motive that I can see.” Egbert decided he had thrown enough cold water on Auguste for the present. “I’ll have to see His Majesty now. Where will he be?” “Taking luncheon very shortly. He has asked for it in his apartments today.”

  “I take it he knows about this?”

  “Mr Entwhistle — ” Auguste emphasised the name heavily, -“said he would tell him about the murder.”

  “Very well. I’ll have a word with his equerry and ask to see him after luncheon.” Egbert heaved a sign. “There are times, Auguste, when I could wish I had never met you.” Auguste was hurt.

  “Professional times,” Egbert continued hastily. “And then only those that involve His Majesty. But now I’m here, tell me again about this wedding and Montfoy’s masquerade as the owner of Farthing Court, and how Pennyfather took the news. I don’t see Edith’s father taking kindly to the deception if he’d discovered me pretending to be the Assistant Commissioner. I doubt if Americans are any different.”

  It was some kind of olive branch, and Auguste took it. Edith’s father had worked on the railways, a solid, down to earth gentleman, now well into his eighties, and he had certain similarities with Horace Pennyfather, though possession of a million dollars was not one of them.

  Rose listened while Auguste talked on. Then he enquired, “Why was Montfoy down here dancing round a maypole when he should have been in bed with his bride?”

  “The villagers still firmly believe in their old traditions and legends. Gertrude Pennyfather, now Lady Montfoy, intends to write a book about English folklore. She was delighted to find such riches in Frimhurst.”

  “Another coincidence,” Rose remarked idly.

  “The old folk seem to be most knowledgeable,” Auguste said uneasily, now that Egbert had put his finger on something that had been troubling him also. “They teach the young ones. My kitchen maid practises the lore she has learnt from her grandmother.”

  “Including dancing round maypoles at midnight?”

  “There seems to be a particular legend in the village that if there is a wedding at Farthing Court, the lord of the manor must ask the oaken maypole or rather its spirit, Herne the Hunter, for permission for the groom and bride to retire for the night.”

  He thought Egbert might laugh, but he didn’t. He stared at the huge pole. “And Montfoy became Herne’s stag? Herne shot him with an arrow and a deer’s head and horns on him? Somehow I don’t think any maypole come to life planted those. Where did they come from?”

  “They were left nearby after the afternoon’s festivities.”

  “Strange sort of festivities. A hunt?”

  “No. An ancient dance. The antlers and head came from the folly.”

  “And the bow and arrows? We found them lying in the undergrowth.”

  “From the folly too, I expect. They could have been taken at any time.”

  “Show me this folly. There’s nothing much to see here. Any footprints have been tramped on by the fellow that raised the alarm, together with all your eager sightseers this morning.”

  Auguste flushed. “I tried to stop them.”

  Egbert shrugged. “You tell me every Tom, Dick and Harriet was dancing here yesterday, so I doubt if there would have been much to see anyway, especially with the earlier rain.” He cast a scathing look at the heavens, and put his umbrella up as they began to oblige with a further shower. That was another thing about the country he disliked: mud. The roads in London threw up mud, but he could deal with that. He could see where it was, whereas in the country every innocent patch of grass might be a bog in disguise. He marched beside Auguste over the grass towards the woods, on the edge of which stood the folly.

  The inside walls looked barren, and the places where the deer’s head and antlers had come from stood out, as did another space which had probably held the bow and arrows.

  “Who had access to this place?”

  “I gather it is usually kept locked, but with so many visitors this weekend who wanted to see it, Tudor tells me it remained open.”

&
nbsp; “Very handy for old Herne.” Egbert paused. “The doctor believes he was tied up to the pole alive and then shot. It would be easier than lifting him up as a dead weight.” Auguste shivered as he thought of Montfoy dragged kicking and presumably gagged to the pole and strung up for death. “Unless he went willingly.”

  “Why should he? On the other hand, why bother to tie him up to kill him? Why not just shoot him?”

  “To tie in with the Frimhurst legend of Herne the Hunter.” Auguste stated the obvious.

  Egbert sighed. “Why would anyone want to do that? It’s beginning to sound like one of your fancy cases again. Are these grounds guarded at night?”

  “Normally yes, but for this wedding only the grounds immediately surrounding the house were guarded, owing to the maypole celebrations, and the dabbling in the dew party and so forth.”

  “The what?”

  “And then of course the troubadour had to have access,” Auguste added innocently.

  Egbert regarded him grimly. “I’m almost looking forward to seeing the king. At least he doesn’t believe in fairies.”

  *

  Louisa was bristling with fury. Her hats had all — save one — reappeared in her rooms as mysteriously as they had disappeared. The one that had not reappeared was the black one she needed to complete her deepest mourning ensemble. This was a plot, and one which had sinister implications.

  “Are you quite sure you remember packing it, Wilson?”

  Her maid glowered. “Oh yes, Your Grace. I couldn’t not.” Indeed she couldn’t. The black plumes had caused her endless trouble in the packing; the end of one had snapped off and had been replaced only with great difficulty, by the promise of a kiss to the under-butler, and a solution of tragacanth gum paste.

  Louisa was thus forced to go cap in hand to Eleonore, whose fair beauty black suited well she couldn’t help noticing. It merely accentuated the fifteen years between them when Louisa wore it. Fond though she had been of Arthur, his death was highly inconvenient.

  “Of course, dear Louisa, you may borrow a hat. I have several with me.”