by Myers, Amy
Gertrude looked up warily. “Now, pa — ”
“Yes,” Horace answered simply. “He plays a real awful hand of bridge now. He lost £10 last night.”
Auguste could have cried with gratitude. It was not much, but it was something.
“I hear you’re in trouble, Mr Didier,” Gertrude said.
“Not for much longer,” Auguste tried to reply steadily to this kindly meant understatement. “We shall find the true murderer of Pyotr Gregorin in Paris — and of your late husband here — very soon.”
Gertrude frowned. “That’s all over surely.”
“Not for Bessie.”
Gertrude said nothing, and Horace quickly intervened. “What do you think of this house, Didier?”
“I think it will soon reveal a murderer.”
“As a house, Didier.”
Auguste was puzzled at this swift diversion of subject. “Magnifique, but … ”
“Gertrude likes it.”
Even odder. “Despite what’s happened here, Lady Montfoy?” Auguste asked curiously.
“You may think this strange, but because of it.”
“Because your husband was murdered here?” He agreed with her. He did think it strange.
“I feel I owe a duty to the village, as his widow.”
“But Thomas Entwhistle is the squire. Surely — ”
“Pa’s thinking of buying the place for me. So I guess that makes me a squire’s lady, pa not having a wife now. That way I’d be able to carry out Arthur’s duties to the village.”
So that was why Entwhistle was here. He was intent on selling the place, and then vanishing out of the limelight, as Auguste had assumed he would. As a murderer would.
*
Bluebell climbed down from the beech tree, appalled at what she had overheard, and rushed to the conservatory where she knew Harvey was enjoying a pipe with Richard Waites.
“Why do I get this feeling I’ll never see the Rockies again?” Harvey was asking plaintively.
“Why don’t you go back?”
“And leave the field to you? No, sirree.”
Bluebell interrupted this unwinnable battle of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. “I’ve just heard something terrible.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“Pa and Gertrude are thinking of buying this awful place.” The look of consternation on Harvey’s face somewhat consoled her.
Richard, however, laughed aloud with pleasure, even as Harvey howled, “What the heck for?”
“Gertrude wants to be the lady of the manor. But I’ve already thought of a plan to prevent it.” Bluebell glanced at Richard, but as he showed no sign of moving she went on. “If Pa married again she wouldn’t be lady of the manor, would she?”
“No,” Richard agreed.
“Well, suppose Pa did marry again.”
“Wizard.” Harvey suddenly got the idea.
“Would you really like Louisa as your stepmother?” Richard enquired politely, skipping several stages in the conversation.
“Don’t you go and put the duchess off the idea, Richard, just to leave the coast clear for you,” Harvey scowled.
“If,” Bluebell remarked airily, “Mr Waites is still here to take advantage of your absence.” She eyed Richard meaningfully. “That policeman is still asking me questions about whom exactly I saw down near the maypole.”
Richard said nothing. There was, for once, nothing he could say, for he had seen from his window just who had been setting off in search of Arthur. It had been Gertrude.
*
“My dear Belinda.” Thomas Entwhistle came into the library where he knew he was sure to find her. “It seems to me I have been neglecting you shamefully. Can’t I tempt you away from Tutankhamun and into the gardens?”
Belinda quite agreed that he had been neglecting her shamefully, but all rancour suddenly vanished as she rapidly replaced her book on the shelves, clambered down the ladder backwards, tripped over the hem of her skirt in her haste, and fell into Thomas’s arms. “Why, certainly, Thomas,” she managed to say though without the calm deliberation she had planned.
“Should you mind if I sold this house, Belinda?” he asked presently, as she was explaining the merits and demerits of half a torso of statuary in the Long Walk.
“Oh! To Gerald?” Discussion on the sale of a house had not been what she had been hoping for from this conversation, but as it might have the merit of dislodging Gerald from the Dower House, she was not altogether averse to it.
“I’m afraid he couldn’t afford it. To the Pennyfathers, and of course Gertrude is Lady Montfoy.”
“Yes,” Belinda said doubtfully, then, “What will you do?”
“I rather thought I’d travel,” Thomas Entwhistle said casually.
“Where to?” Belinda asked enviously.
“Egypt, Persia, Iraq — ”
“Egypt!”
“If I had a companion of course.”
Belinda could hardly believe her ears, and her normal common sense deserted her.
*
The rectory high tea could not be compared with Farthing Court. Twitch and Auguste were locked in a silent but for once mutual disapprobation of Welsh rarebit when Egbert arrived.
“You look tired, Egbert.”
“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of that tea.”
Auguste would, willingly, but Englishmen were different.
“I’ve seen Jeanne Planchet,” Rose grinned.
“Good news, Egbert?”
“For you, yes. She’s admitted she knew both of them. Worked for Gregorin and that meant Entwhistle when he was away.”
“Why didn’t she say earlier?” Auguste exclaimed.
“Because he’d paid her passage money to America if she kept quiet.” Egbert took a gulp of stewed tea. “My word, that tastes good.”
“Where does this leave us, sir?” Twitch asked gloomily, seeing the Frenchie slipping through his fingers.
“Coming up to the finishing post fast, wouldn’t you say, Auguste?”
Auguste had been doing some rapid thinking. “Yes, Egbert, I would.”
Chapter Ten
“Oh, don’t deceive me; Oh, never leave me.” Annie, the fifteen-year-old general maid, was bawling outside Auguste’s bedroom, either through a spontaneous inclination to burst into song or in an effort to impress on the rectory guests what a delightful place rural England was. “How could you use a poor maiden so?” Annie finished with a triumphant yell. Perhaps later in the day Auguste might have appreciated this musical offering, but before seven o’clock he did not. It brought his present situation back in far too brutal a fashion and much aggrieved, he went to claim the jug of no doubt tepid water placed outside his door. Bathroom there might be, but old ways died hard in Frimhurst.
It occurred to him as he splashed water on his face in an attempt to brace himself for the day, that Frimhurst seemed to have a passion for old English folk songs far out of proportion to the talent available for rendering them. Indeed, Frimhurst seemed to be devoted to feudal times in all respects — such as thatching, which hitherto he had been under the impression was an alternative to tiling, not an addition, as it seemed to be in this village.
This last thought brought with it an interesting thesis. He had correctly deduced that the village was in a conspiracy to invent legends when it suited them. Was it involved in the same web of illusion that surrounded Farthing Court, and if so, was the same spider responsible for both? It would make sense, he argued. Gregorin would be anxious that Arthur Montfoy’s wedding celebrations were a success, so that nothing should mar his own friendship with His Majesty at this fraught time of international relations, and Entwhistle would be equally anxious to ensure that the Pennyfathers were not dissuaded from a speedy purchase of Farthing Court. The legalities of who owned it, Gregorin or Entwhistle, might, Auguste conjectured, be somewhat complicated, but once sold to a prominent American the Tsar, whose secret service undoubtedly financed the purchase three years earl
ier, would be the last person to dispute ownership. President Roosevelt had just declared himself a player on the international stage, prepared to act as peacemaker between Russia and Japan to end the disastrous war. One Elizabethan manor house forfeited would seem a small price to pay for peace.
Pleased with the beneficial results of cold water on his detective powers, Auguste decided on a pre-emptive raid upon the bathroom before Twitch was likely to have emerged. Twitch in nightshirt and dressing gown was an even more formidable experience than Twitch in all his inspector’s glory. Just as Auguste turned away from the bowl of water, he glanced down into the garden. There, marching along the garden path, not in tribute to a beautiful English summer day, but with grim determination and clutching a suitcase, was Mrs Simpkins, the rector’s housekeeper, and the set of her back made it clear she had no intention of returning. Had Auguste been her employer, he could have borne her departure with great pleasure, but he realised the rector might view it rather differently.
He shortly discovered that her musical efforts had not inspired Annie in the preparation of breakfast. The kidneys resembled gallstones in consistency, and the mushrooms winked up at Auguste from the plate like shrivelled evil black eyes. How he longed for the austerity of a French breakfast where the stomach could contemplate the day ahead in peace instead of being assaulted by the heavy ammunition deemed essential in this country.
“I regret,” the rector explained apologetically, meeting Auguste and Egbert in the entrance hall as he returned from Whit Sunday matins, “Mrs Simpkins did not quite see eye to eye with Inspector Stitch. I gather that last evening he compared her work unfavourably with that of Mrs Stitch.” For once Auguste felt fully united with Twitch. Egbert, used to such assaults upon his stomach, accepted unprotestingly what was placed in front of him.
“However,” the rector beamed comfortingly upon his lodgers, “Annie has kindly said she will prepare luncheon.”
The kidneys and mushrooms united in protest inside Auguste. “Non, I will prepare the luncheon.”
“Oh.” The rector looked doubtful at this generous offer, and Egbert pinpointed the reason for his disquiet.
“You’ll be safe, rector,” he explained kindly. “Mr Didier is accused of murder, but not by poisoning.”
Any kitchen must be a haven, and this one, Auguste told himself, could have no serpents inside it. The drawback was, he soon discovered, that it didn’t have much of anything inside it. He inspected the larder in dismay. The oven was waiting, but a large joint of beef sitting plumb in the middle of the larder was the only candidate for it, and its bright redness proclaimed it was intending to be very tough indeed. It would be a challenge. The larder also boasted an array of half-empty packets, glass jars with preserved remains of long-forgotten purchases of lentilles, and gravy powder, and some tins. The vegetable store possessed some busily sprouting old potatoes, two cabbages with yellowing leaves, and some bottled apples.
“Remember the vows that you made to your Mary.” Annie came into the kitchen still intent on music.
“Do you not sing hymns on a Sunday, Annie?”
“Not yet. I can’t. Mus Wickman says keep it up just for a few more days.”
“Keep what up?” he enquired innocently, pleased at this apparent confirmation of his thesis.
Annie, realising she had spoken too freely, shut her mouth obstinately, then stomped out of the kitchen with the blacklead and the monkey soap.
It was a strange situation, Auguste reflected, that Bessie was in prison accused of murder and her husband was encouraging the village to sing old folk songs. Were they powerful prayers, born of the last vestiges of the old religions? He too was accused of murder; would singing help? Should he sing to the beef? He decided to try it out. There was nothing to lose.
N’est plus belle que ma Normandie,
C’est le pays qui m’a donné le jour.
“Ma Normandie … ” It made no immediate difference to the beef, but it did depressingly bring Eleonore back into his mind. Eleonore who had loved not him, not even Cousin Bertie, but Gregorin, and was bent on vengeance for his murder. He carried out the beef, placed it on the ill-scrubbed table and sacrificed a little of the red wine he had been saving for Egbert and himself that evening (the rector and, rather reluctantly he felt, Twitch had declared themselves committed to Temperance) and poured some over in a libation to the old god of food, whoever he might have been. What else could he find in this vast rectory?
Then it came to him. Le vrai Bon Seigneur would provide. In the meadow and hedgerows and the rectory garden, He would undoubtedly have provided wild garlic, nettles and sorrel for soup, and dandelion leaves for salad, at the very least. The soup would have to be based on an ancient bouillon cube, but at least the meal would offer something in homage to a summer’s day.
Perhaps after all there was something to be said for the old ways, the gathering of herbs and flavours for medicinal remedies, the singing of ancient folk songs, the interlocking of the affairs of the lord of the manor and the village — however the latter were organised. True, in the case of Farthing Court the lord of the manor had only held the office for three years, but — Auguste stopped, his hand on the wicket gate, with a sudden feeling he had hit upon something important. What it was, however, unfortunately refused to reveal itself to him.
*
Preparations for luncheon at the White Dragon were somewhat simpler. Bread and cheese awaited Bert in his desolate parlour behind the bar door. Glasses of ale provided his hors d’oeuvre and that of the rest of his committee. Nevertheless Bert was happy.
“What’s up, Bert?” Alf asked curiously.
“Nothing. Can’t a man grin if he wants to?”
“It’s not like you, Bert,” Adelaide pointed out.
Bert obliged her by reverting to the norm with a snarl. “It is today, see?”
They hastily all decided to see, in the interests of a continued flow of ale.
“I done you a ballad, Bert,” Jacob said placatingly. “’Tis said Herne the Hunter stalks Frimhurst copses, Along with beetles, badgers and wopses. Beware the — ”
“Not very tasteful, is it?” grunted Bert.
“It’s tradition,” shrieked Jacob, indignant at this lack of appreciation for his best efforts.
“Only since May Day,” Alf pointed out. “Never heard a word about Herne before then.”
“I think we done a Horn Dance years ago,” Jacob muttered defiantly. “What for, if it weren’t for old Herne?”
“All right.” Bert suddenly made up his mind. “Let’s give ’em old Herne.”
“Morris team is ready,” Alf said proudly. “Smocks, flowery hats, the lot. We’ll give ’em the Handkerchief, the Pipe and the Bean.”
“Don’t forget the Horn,” Bert suddenly grinned again. “We got to give ’em the Horn, ain’t we? And the ’Orse.”
*
Sunday luncheon at Farthing Court was producing anxious moments in Pug’s Parlour, as the upper servants gathered to parade to the lower servants’ hall.
“It’s true,” Tudor said gloomily. “He’s told me straight. They’re signing the papers on Tuesday.”
Mrs Honey sighed. “We can stay on, but it won’t be the same.”
“You mean we won’t get the same money.”
“We wouldn’t anywhere. Besides, it’s a roof over our heads.” Tudor was only too anxious to sink at least temporarily back into the straight and narrow.
“If I can cook American,” Ethelred pointed out doubtfully. “That Miss Bluebell says it’s easy. You just think big. Big steaks, big platefuls of grits — ”
“What?”
“Grits. It’s what they eat in the South out there.”
“I don’t think Home Farm grows it.”
“They’ll have to,” Ethelred snapped.
“Cheer up, Mr Perkins, the king is dead, long live the king,” said Tudor encouragingly.
Ethelred paled. “It couldn’t have been anything I cooked. Mr D
idier did his meals.”
“Just a turn of phrase, Mr Perkins. One lord of the manor goes, another comes.”
“We’ve had a bit too much coming and going in that direction, it seems to me,” Mrs Honey observed. There was a pause while they considered this.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Ethelred said at last. “Just an accident, I expect. How could we know what was going to happen?”
The assembled gathering agreed only too eagerly that they couldn’t.
*
“Your maid, Lady Montfoy, tells me she was only with you for a few moments the night your husband died. Then you sent her away. Is that true?” Egbert asked.
Gertrude for once showed discomposure. “Yes, I guess it is.”
“Then why tell me she was with you all night?”
“I didn't. I merely said she was there when I returned.”
“Not your style to play with words, I’d have thought. Why did you? Because you were going to follow Lord Montfoy?”
“Yes. But I didn’t.”
Egbert waited.
“I wanted to talk to him — I hadn’t had a chance all the evening, and ask him how he could have treated me so badly. I couldn’t find him when I left the dance, so I realised he must already have left. I dismissed Jeanne and then thought I’d go after him-but halfway there, I realised it was beneath my dignity to tackle him. Far better to do as Pa said and keep away. So I turned back.”
“What were you wearing, Lady Montfoy?”
“What an odd question. I still had my balldress on, and I put a coat over it.”
“A long one?”
“Short.”
“Thank you, Lady Montfoy.”
Gertrude seemed rather surprised to be let off so easily, but Egbert was well satisfied.
*
“A good piece of beef,” the rector said approvingly. “Mrs Simpkins chose well. Such a loss.”
Auguste remained silent. Of such misconceptions, a chef’s life is made.
“Good soup, Didier,” said Twitch approvingly. He hated it in fact, but was prepared to offer an olive branch in preference to accepting blame for the departure of a Queen of Chefs.