Murder with Majesty

by Amy Myers

  “Oh, Mr Didier, you haven’t eaten any, have you?”

  “I have not. Why?”

  “’Tis the fairies’ food; they don’t like humans stealing it.”

  Nor do hedgehogs, he thought sleepily, as he tumbled into bed half an hour later. Or rats. If only Egbert were here! How he missed his pragmatic presence. No fairy would dare cause trouble with Egbert around. As it was …

  *

  By morning common sense was re-established. There was no more talk of fairies, and servants’ breakfast was satisfyingly substantial. Being swung between the two kingdoms within this house, above and below stairs, had its compensations, he had to admit. Whether this would continue to be so with His Majesty about to arrive was a moot point, however. Much depended on Cousin Bertie’s mood. Menus had hastily to be re-thought if His Majesty’s face declared thunder in the air. On the other hand, a beaming serene countenance paved the way for a less ‘safe’ menu, which might win praise or condemnation. Auguste decided he would present himself with the welcoming group on the front steps in order to gain the earliest possible warning of danger. A crossing by Channel steamer which His Majesty would just have endured, did not bode well for the royal palate or temper.

  “Bonjour, Auguste.” Eleonore, wrapped in furs against the spring chill, appeared at his side.

  He bowed. “Madame la comtesse, bonjour.”

  “Ah, Auguste. To you I am Eleonore.”

  In the distance he could see the cavalcade of motor cars arriving, the second bearing the royal standard. The Daimler drew to a halt, the detectives sprang down from the car behind and in front, and came to stand by the king’s car, the chauffeur opened the door, and His Majesty Edward VII, King and Emperor, stepped down.

  He looked in a good mood, almost jovial, and Auguste began to relax. All was well, mutton chops could be relegated to ‘standby’ instead of ‘pride of place’.

  “Who is that with him?” Eleonore whispered.

  He spoke, even as his eyes went to the slight man of medium height who had stepped down behind His Majesty, immaculate in striped trousers, morning coat and grey top hat … “He must be Mr Thomas Entwhistle, lord of the manor.”

  Eleonore noticed nothing wrong, but Auguste almost stumbled in horror at his own terrible mistake, a worse shock than he could ever have imagined. The true lord of the manor might be known by that name at Farthing Court. But to Auguste he was only too familiar under another.

  It was Pyotr Gregorin, his would-be murderer.

  Chapter Three

  My dear Auguste, are you quite well?” Eleonore. looked concerned.

  He was not. Somehow he had to escape, but how could he do so before His Majesty had passed them in the welcoming party? Even in his present state of dizziness it occurred to him one of the few advantages of his anomalous position as both guest and chef meant he could claim the excuse of returning to his kitchen. Nevertheless Auguste took a quick look to ensure His Majesty was well occupied with his usual task of assessing guests and their attire. Summoning as much suave courtesy as circumstances permitted, he murmured, “If you will excuse me, Eleonore, I must attend to my whim-wham.” An eighteenth-century trifle was not the most tactful reason he had ever given for leaving a beautiful woman, but it could not be helped.

  “Indeed?” Eleonore was amused. “So, Auguste, when tonight your whim-wham is sufficiently prepared, we must ensure we meet again to enjoy it.”

  Did she mean — ? At any other time Auguste would have followed this distressingly interesting thought through, but not today. As Eleonore moved forward to be introduced by Lord Montfoy to His Majesty and then to Mr Entwhistle, he quietly melted away as imperceptibly and speedily as an ice block in summer.

  Now the enormity of what he had just seen began to dawn on him. He longed for doubt to enter his head, but it did not come. It was Gregorin. A certain turn of the head, the sharp eyes, the lithe movement, the suppressed sense of energy. But what was Pyotr Gregorin, Tatiana’s uncle, and a prominent member of the Tsar’s secret service, the Okhrana, doing masquerading as one Thomas Entwhistle, English gentleman?

  There was only one answer. It was a dark conspiracy to murder Auguste Didier, master chef. Gregorin had sworn to kill him, and had made several attempts already, but neither Auguste nor Egbert Rose at Scotland Yard had heard anything of him for three years — in England, at any rate. He was living quietly in Paris in the Russian quarter near the Parc Monceau, according to Tatiana, and his occupational (no doubt murderous) trips abroad all took him east, south and occasionally north. Never west. Now, Auguste was forced to realise that somehow for three years Gregorin had been building up an alias as Thomas Entwhistle in the green countryside of Kent. Why? The Okhrana, Auguste knew, was famed for its patience in waiting until the moment was ripe to strike. Panic gripped him. He was the overhung pheasant now ready for the plucking. He would never see Tatiana again, unless he left now, but if he did leave now His Majesty would no doubt join the conspiracy to murder him. He was caught, and the stew pot awaited him.

  After a calming cup of vervain taken in the relative quiet of the servants’ hall, his panic began to subside. He reasoned that it had been Horace Pennyfather who had asked him to provide the banquet, and he had understood that Mr Pennyfather had never met Thomas Entwhistle, since he was still under the happy delusion that his future son-in-law owned Farthing Court. Also Thomas Entwhistle’s kitchen staff had not known Auguste’s name until his arrival, which suggested that Entwhistle had not passed the name on to them, and might therefore — a tiny surge of hope — not have known of his presence.

  The hope promptly vanished when Auguste remembered that there was a link between Horace Pennyfather and Thomas Entwhistle: His Majesty King Edward VII, Cousin Bertie. It could be a conspiracy between all three of them. Panic rose again, and then retreated a little. Auguste was well aware he was not popular with His Majesty for marrying Tatiana, but on reflection it seemed unlikely that his Britannic Majesty would stoop so far as murder to free Tatiana of the burden of her spouse.

  Or would he? There was certainly precedent for it in English history.

  “Will no one rid me of this turbulent cook?” Had Bertie in a royal passion, imitated his predecessor Henry II in demanding the removal of his archbishop Thomas à Becket, and had Messrs Pennyfather and Entwhistle proved only too happy to oblige in disposing of this unwanted chef?

  Another cup of vervain tea dismissed this thesis but a second one, more stubborn than the last, replaced it. Had Gregorin planted the idea in His Majesty’s mind that Auguste should cook the wedding banquet, and had His Majesty duly passed it on to Horace Pennyfather?

  He had a third thought. Was this terrible picture all part of what he had thought of so recently as a paradise? Young Jenny, in the course of her unwanted instruction to him about fairyland, had referred to glamour, the enchantment the fairies cast over human eyes so that they should not see things as they really were. Perhaps he should get some four-leaf clover ointment which apparently was the only cure. A third cup of tea replaced the need for a hunt for four-leaf clover as yet another nightmare idea seized him. Surely His Majesty could not be aware that he was accepting the hospitality, not of the ‘decent chap’ he imagined Entwhistle to be, but a member of the Tsar’s Okhrana? With the present inclination of the Tsar to fawn upon the Kaiser, rather than France and Britain, as a means of guaranteeing stability in Europe, which the present disastrous state of their war with Japan could not provide in Asia, Bertie would surely not be happy at this situation? The peaceable relations with France since the entente cordiale, so dear to Bertie’s heart, would be seriously in danger. His Majesty, Auguste remembered, would now be at church, but when he returned Auguste decided he must see him immediately-

  For once he found himself reluctant to resume work. The delights of flummery, of ortolans and galantines had receded (temporarily) at the terrible predicament he faced. He forced himself to concentrate on the glories before him, and slowly inched his way t
hrough the schedule of work. There was satisfaction in the pulping of cucumbers and peas through a colander; it took one’s mind off less pleasant subjects like imminent death and moreover resulted in such delights as Summer Soup au Didier.

  Jenny had been commandeered by Ethelred to prepare boiled macaroni with mustard and parmesan cheese for the servants’ luncheon, a delicacy Auguste felt he could sacrifice in favour of the fricandeau of veal he had noticed Ethelred quietly removing from the entrees being set aside for the guests. When the time for the servants’ dinner came, therefore, he was eager to join the upper servants in Pug’s Parlour.

  He was rapidly to change his mind. Against all unwritten tradition in the management of country houses, two minutes after he had arrived, Thomas Entwhistle came through the green baize door and actually entered Pug’s Parlour.

  Auguste froze. Mr Tudor was claiming his master’s attention in order to introduce the hypnotised chef.

  “Pray forgive this intrusion, Mr Didier.” Gregorin’s courteous eyes looked into his. “I could not, in the circumstances, speak to my staff anywhere but here, and indeed I must be gone rapidly for I understand that the visiting servants will be arriving at any moment.”

  Auguste tried to reassure himself that even Gregorin could not murder him before approximately forty people — or could he? Gregorin was capable of anything; he was the cat that walked alone as in Mr Kipling’s Just So Stories. Never had Auguste longed more for Egbert Rose’s stalwart presence.

  “I am honoured to meet such a distinguished chef,” Gregorin continued. “Tudor tells me you are related to His Majesty. I had no idea or I would naturally have given special orders for your visit.”

  Should he bow in grateful acknowledgement of such thoughtfulness, Auguste wondered? No, bowing would mean taking his eyes off Gregorin.

  “I will explain to Lord Montfoy,” Entwhistle added the coup de grâce, “and you will dine with us this evening.”

  Of course! Gregorin was going to poison him!

  “Alas,” Auguste managed to blurt out, “in the interests of my work for tomorrow’s banquet, that will not be possible. The spinach and almond blancmange — ”

  “I am quite sure His Majesty will expect precedence over a blancmange.”

  Not by the slightest gesture was Gregorin displaying any sign of recognition. There was nothing to suggest he was other than a somewhat nondescript English country gentleman. But Gregorin’s speciality was disguise, Auguste reminded himself. He could almost have believed that he’d been mistaken in thinking this Gregorin but for one thing: there was an invisible wall of cold around him that almost made Auguste physically step back. It was the cold of evil, and that he could not mistake. He sensed its smell like that of a bad rabbit stew.

  He left, to Auguste’s relief, just as the first of the visiting servants arrived, including some of His Majesty’s whom Auguste recognised. “Monsieur,” murmured Jeanne Planchet, promptly dropping Gregorin a deep curtsey. Even she, Auguste noticed, looked horrified to see such a break with tradition. Pug’s Parlour, whether in England or France, was sacrosanct.

  Auguste ate his way through several slices of fricandeau and a portion of bottled plum pie, as he mused over the best time to interrupt His Majesty. He glanced at the junior equerry deep in conversation with Ethelred, and wondered whether to consult him. No, he would choose his own time, and then go to the royal apartments and appeal to Gold Stick with whom he had always got on well. He would not go before His Majesty’s luncheon, nor during coffee and brandy, but before the cricket match.

  *

  “Nonsense!”

  Auguste’s heart sank. His Majesty’s usual Sunday luncheon of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding had been followed by cheese and a flummery of Aphrodite’s Paphos Temple, but it seemed to have done little to mitigate His Majesty’s testiness. This couldn’t all be due to his presence, and Auguste could only ascribe it to news of the coming cricket match having just reached him.

  “Look at him, Didier,” Bertie continued to bellow, “he’s English. Any idiot can see that.”

  Auguste bravely held firm. Idiots could see Entwhistle’s Jermyn Street shirts, they could see the Savile Row lounge suit, they could see the elegant monocle, but they were observing only the disguise Gregorin had adopted. It was the most clever disguise of all: his concentration on the playing of his part.

  “I think you should mention it to your detectives, sir, just in case.”

  “It’s you he wants to murder, not me,” His Majesty pointed out, rather pleased with his wit. “If you’re right, Tom Entwhistle is a clever fellow. But you’re not. I’ve just travelled from Calais with him, I’ve stayed with him in Paris, I shall do so again, his name is Thomas Entwhistle, and that’s that.”

  “But your detective Mr Sweeney will know that he’s Gregorin. He’s well known to Special Branch.”

  “Have you been drinking, Didier? He has seen him. He’s Thomas Entwhistle, not a paid assassin for blasted cousin Nicholas. Understand?”

  *

  Unconvinced, and leaving the preparation of the aspic in the sure hands of Ethelred Perkins, Auguste hurried to the village. He must telephone Egbert Rose immediately, but not from Farthing Court, since Gregorin might be listening, which would undoubtedly shorten Auguste’s lifespan. His heart sank as he remembered it was Sunday and the post office would be closed. Where else would have a telephone? The rectory. Of course. Auguste flew up the drive of the sprawling red-brick rectory and rang the bell. The rector, he discovered, was an elderly gentleman who seemed extremely nervous at requests from strange gentlemen to use the new-fangled apparatus his bishop had insisted on his installing.

  “All is going well, I trust?” the rector asked.

  “Thank you,” Auguste answered automatically. “All is nearly ready for tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like your coming to me.” The rector’s voice grew querulous. “I told them I’d have no official part in Mr Entwhistle’s plans. They can do what they like, but I won’t be involved.”

  August retreated in horror. So the rector knew about the conspiracy to murder him too. He couldn’t stay here, telephoning in front of one of Gregorin’s confederates. He would have a dagger plunged into him at the very mention of Scotland Yard. Where else could he go? Nowhere in Frimhurst village, that was clear. They were all in Gregorin’s pay. He was imprisoned at Farthing Court, and he must risk the house telephone while Gregorin was at the cricket match.

  *

  Inspector Egbert Rose was not pleased to be interrupted in the course of his one Sunday off this month. He had indigestion, as he usually did after a luncheon that involved Mr Pinpole’s meat, and a short sleep had seemed a fine idea. He listened grumpily while Auguste’s voice waxed eloquent over the telephone.

  “Gregorin in England? You’ve had an overdose of imagination.”

  The line crackled. “There is something wrong, Egbert. I know it, and His Majesty will take no notice.”

  “Suppose Entwhistle is Gregorin, it’s you he’s after.” Although Rose believed in being practical, he regretted it when the torrent of words grew even faster.

  “It can’t be Gregorin, Auguste,” he finally managed to cut in. “If he’d been coming into this country disguised as Thomas Entwhistle or Alexander the Great for that matter, we’d have noticed.”

  “He’s a clever man, Egbert.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then listen to me. If Thomas Entwhistle is really Pyotr Gregorin of the Tsar’s Okhrana, then not only I but His Majesty is in danger.”

  “Gregorin won’t assassinate him. The Tsar wouldn’t sanction that.”

  “There are other kinds of danger.”

  A pause. Then, “That’s Special Branch territory, Auguste, and you’ve got them at Farthing Court already. What I will do is to get on to Chenais at the Sûreté and ask him to check Gregorin’s whereabouts this afternoon.”

  “And if he is away, known to be in England?”

  “I’ll telegraph
.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Farthing Court will have set up a telegraph office with the king there.”

  Auguste hung the telephone apparatus up on its hook, only partly relieved. The Dizzy Duchess, listening through the slightly open door of the next room, was not at all relieved, but she was keenly interested.

  *

  His Majesty congratulated himself on showing forbearance towards his Cousin Tatiana’s husband. It only went to show what happened when you let cooks into the family. He had a vague idea that this must be something to do with working in proximity to ovens — you flared up and boiled over from time to time. The day was bad enough as it was without being informed old Tom was some sort of Russian spy. He’d had enough rude shocks for one day. At luncheon he had broached the subject of this afternoon’s recreation and Horace promptly began babbling about some cricket match. This, he was convinced, had not been on the agreed agenda. He’d never have come if so. Unfortunately a glance at the written agenda just before that cook insisted on seeing him revealed that he had misread cricket as croquet. That was a sport. He’d made more assignations during a game of croquet than W.G. Grace had scored in runs.

  Unfortunately he now found himself sitting with Horace, Arthur and Gertrude in this so-called royal box — more like a blasted horse box in his opinion — watching not only a cricket match, but one which looked likely to score heavily over Lords in the boredom stakes, and that was saying something. Both sides, the Gentlemen of Frimhurst and the Players of Frimhurst, were lined up for an opening ceremony in honour, not of him, but some fellow they called the Mighty Mynn. He was some cricketer or other who had been born locally, he gathered, and weighed eighteen stone. So much for sport keeping your weight down. He watched politely as both teams began to leap up and down to the sound of a fiddle, morris bells ringing madly and cricket bats clashing. This, he gathered, was a dance. Not to him. A dance involved holding a woman in your arms, even if it were only Alexandra. The performance ended with the players lined up and their bats making an arch. For one terrible moment, he thought he might be invited to run the gauntlet through it, but fortunately for their heads, which might otherwise have rolled, this did not seem part of the festivities.