by Amy Myers
Bessie looked sullen. “I told her to tell as many people as possible. I wanted that bride of his to see him looking so stupid. But as soon as I put the head on and made sure he could breathe, I was off. Nothing to do with the bow and arrows. And she saw me go.”
*
“Bessie Wickman was going to be a witness anyway, so her husband’s off the jury, and the coroner isn’t going to be the one she’s expecting. The chief coroner will be here conducting the inquest instead.” Egbert paused after listening to Auguste’s eager recital. “You’ve done some good work. Glad you’ve taken your mind off Gregorin.”
“It explains more of what happened,” Auguste said, unreasonably ruffled. “We know now there were two involved, the person who tied Lord Montfoy to the pole, and the actual murderer.”
“Do we know that?”
“I can’t see Bessie risking murder,” objected Auguste.
“Can’t you? Let’s have another word with Miss Bluebell Pennyfather.”
Accepting the olive branch, Auguste waited while Rose rang the bell for his constable to take a message to Miss Pennyfather, and five minutes later, Bluebell, accompanied by Horace, entered the morning room, somewhat less confidently than on her earlier visit.
“Miss Bluebell, Mr Didier here tells us that Bessie Wickman claims that as well as telling people about Lord Montfoy’s likely visit to the maypole at midnight, you were present yourself. Is that right? You didn’t mention that to us.”
“Now see here — ” Horace interrupted angrily.
“Yes, I was,” Bluebell said aggressively. “But there was nothing to tell you, so I didn’t.”
“I’m not accusing her of anything, Mr Pennyfather, but there’s been a murder done and we need to know what she saw.”
Rather reluctantly, Horace postponed his immediate plan of sending for every American attorney in London, but continued to listen very warily.
“Why did you go there?”
Bluebell hesitated. “I thought Gertrude might be there, since the old legend involved her bridegroom.” Her eyes shone with innocence behind the heavy spectacles. “And I thought everyone should be there, since it was so important a legend.”
“And who was there?” Auguste asked quietly.
“When I got there, Bessie was just leaving, and — Arthur — ” her voice faltered a little “ — was tied to the maypole with the deer’s head on. He did look funny.” The voice quavered and she looked to her father for reassurance.
“So you knew Herne hadn’t appeared himself, honey?” Horace intervened.
“Fairy forces have sometimes to work through human hands, that’s what Bessie said. Herne had used hers. Human hands carry out the rituals because they are true. The spirits inside the oak were calling to her, she said.”
“And what about Lord Montfoy?” Rose asked. “Was he making any sound?”
“He was alive,” she said quickly. “He was wriggling and seemed to be saying something but his voice was muffled. Bessie said it was the call of the oak, and it was time for her to leave. So she did.”
“Then whose human hands did you think would remove the head?”
“I asked Bessie that,” Bluebell said with some pride. “She told me the bride would claim her bridegroom.”
“Did Gertrude know that?”
“Oh yes, Bessie said she’d told her.”
Horace’s face grew black.
“And everyone else,” added Bluebell hastily, seeing where this would lead.
“Then what did you do? Try to talk to Lord Montfoy?”
“No. I was scared. Just a little bit, so I came back to bed. I thought Gertrude would be coming — in any case someone was moving through the trees.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” She shut her mouth obstinately. “It was a man, though. That's what scared me.”
“No idea who it was?”
“No. I know he wasn’t tall enough for Harvey though.” She assuaged her conscience by telling herself that she really had seen someone, and had thought it was a man. “Did I do wrong, Pa?” She looked worriedly at her father.
“I guess it must have been Old Herne, honey,” Horace said comfortingly.
*
“Ah, Mr Didier, I am so pleased to find you here.”
Et in Arcadia ego. The Latin tag came chillingly back to Auguste as he entered the former Arcadian paradise of the kitchens. Today the serpent had wriggled his way in. Pyotr Gregorin (he still could not think of him as Thomas Entwhistle) was talking to Ethelred Perkins, Mrs Honey and Stuart Tudor. They must indeed be angelic for what servants would tolerate the intrusion of their employer at such a crucial time for dinner? Tudor should be supervising the setting of the tables, and Ethelred in the final delightful stages of touring the kitchen, checking and tasting. A Sauce Dugléré did not reach perfection by itself.
“You will recall,” Gregorin smiled at him (as did the wolf when Little Red Riding Hood trotted in), “I invited you to join my reception for His Majesty in Paris later this month on May the twenty-third. That is a Tuesday, and my guests are joining me on the previous Saturday. As his cousin by marriage, you and your wife would be a glittering addition to our gathering.”
The only thing that would be glittering, in Auguste’s opinion, would be the knife that flashed into his back.
“I am honoured,” he replied, “on behalf of my wife and myself. Unfortunately she — and indeed I — will be absent — at the Gordon Bennett trials in the Isle of Man, to which she is committed.”
Never had motor racing been so welcome in his eyes. In fact the trials were a week or so later, but he hoped that Gregorin would not know the niceties of the motor racing scene.
“That is indeed unfortunate.” Gregorin looked disturbed. “I shall have to explain to His Majesty.”
“Why?” The question was bald, but Auguste was immediately suspicious.
Ethelred Perkins replied. “It is my fault, dear Mr Didier. Please blame me. Mr Entwhistle has kindly suggested that since the American envoy is to be present, and many English dignitaries, many of whom live abroad, it would be a courtesy to them if I were to travel to Paris, accompanied by Mr Tudor, to organise the banquet, since his French chef, excellent though he is, cooks only in the French mode.”
“And does that affect me?” Auguste asked warily, and aware of Gregorin’s watchful (mocking?) eye upon him.
“I felt I was not sufficiently experienced to undertake a banquet with American and French dishes in it, and suggested to Mr Entwhistle he might request your gracious assistance in helping me run it.”
A prickle of fear ran down Auguste’s spine as he heard Gregorin reply, “And since you are an honoured member of the royal family, I naturally had to mention this to His Majesty. He was most eager that I persuade you.” He provided Auguste with another smile, as he placed the cheese in the mousetrap. “Indeed, he all but insisted, since he laughingly joked that he had this arrangement whereby if he requested it you should cook for him at such banquets.” There seemed to be some amusement on Gregorin’s face as he added gently, “He does request it, Mr Didier.”
Snap! The mousetrap held him fast.
Chapter Seven
The inquest into the death of the late Lord Montfoy was held, with great reluctance by Chief Inspector Egbert Rose and great eagerness by Naseby, in his own former ballroom; the drawback that many of those most closely involved in the death were still residing under the same roof was overlooked, since Farthing Court was the only building in Frimhurst, save the church, large enough to hold the hordes that might be expected to attend. The press had held back many of the more lurid facts of Lord Montfoy’s death, but nevertheless his death in what was described as a ‘fatal shooting accident’ on his wedding night was bound to attract some attention. Even the village hall, a proud edifice painstakingly transformed into a mediaeval relic for the Montfoy wedding, though in fact constructed only forty years earlier, was dismissed as unworthy for the event.
The inquest began at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, with no deference to the fact that many guests in the house would normally still be at breakfast at this hour and far from suitably attired for such an occasion. Gertrude, however, had decided that the funeral should take place later that day, and Gerald, whose permission was belatedly sought as present head of the Montfoy family, was eager to agree.
Auguste was surprised to find no sign of Egbert in the room, only Naseby who graciously awarded him a scowl. Puzzled, he saw a vacant chair, and made his way to it, only to find he would be delicately positioned between Eleonore and Louisa. Too late to draw back, he sat down, and the feathers in their respective hats stuck out towards each other over his head like a triumphal arch.
“What happens if the jury thinks one of us is guilty?” Eleonore enquired.
“Worried, Comtesse?” Louisa asked sweetly.
“Ah, Louisa, let us not trifle so on this solemn day,” Eleonore replied gravely.
Point to Eleonore, Auguste decided.
“My apologies if you mistook my meaning.” Louisa looked most hurt. “As a stranger here, I thought you might have a natural suspicion of our splendid police system.”
Or perhaps it was a draw.
The jury, seated on the platform — if Auguste remembered correctly from the May Day cavortings at least one of them would be more at ease playing in a band — stared stiffly ahead as though a glance at the packed audience might prejudice the course of justice. The coroner, having lodged for the night with the local registrar, after his journey from Maidstone, was wishing he didn’t have to view dead bodies so soon after eating badly cooked kidneys.
Little emerged from the technical evidence that Auguste did not already know. However, the time of death was now fixed at between eleven and one o’clock, which was new, and he waited with impatiently for the coroner’s questions on the presence of the deer’s head. He waited on the whole in vain for after Alf Spade had explained how he found the body, had denied that he himself had placed the head on the dead man, and explained that in visiting the maypole at seven in the morning he had not been returning to the scene of his own crime but merely coming to tidy away the remaining deer’s antlers, the only question the coroner asked was whether Lord Montfoy could have suffocated.
Assured by the police doctor that the arrow had been the cause of death, he asked no more save for details of where the bow had been found and where it had been obtained. However, Auguste noticed that various members of the press were showing a great deal more interest than hitherto.
Where was Egbert? he wondered. Bluebell was taking the stand now, with Horace and Gertrude in the front row, anxiously watching her. As the only person who had admitted being anywhere near the scene, Bluebell appeared now to be relishing her position as principal witness, and her accent brought even more avid scribbling in press notebooks. Only one of the principal witnesses, Auguste qualified. Where was Bessie Wickman?
“Just tell us what happened, young lady. No need to be nervous,” the coroner told her kindly but unnecessarily.
“My sister is very interested in your English legends, so when that old gentleman from the village told us the legend about Herne the Hunter and Montfoy marriages, I guess I thought I’d go down and see if Arthur and Gertrude would come down to the maypole in case old Herne did walk. So I left the dance, went back to my room and washed up, ready for — ”
“Washed up, young lady? In the kitchens?”
Bluebell was nonplussed. “No, the maids bring the water up to the room.”
“And what do you do with the clean dishes?”
Richard Waites stood up. “A difference of language, sir.”
Bluebell proceeded to explain that when she got there, her new brother-in-law had been tied to the maypole, with the deer’s head on, but there had been no arrow in his chest. “My friend Bessie was talking to him.”
“Through the deer’s head?”
“Yes. Then she patted it, said goodbye, and left.”
“Why didn’t you remove the head?”
Bluebell replied quickly enough, having been prepared for this. “Oh, I couldn’t, sir. It was an old English legend you see. I thought it might bring bad luck to interfere, and that my sister would be coming to do it.”
The coroner nodded approvingly at such sensitivity to English ways. “And you and Mrs Wickman were the only people there?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister didn’t come?”
A very decided “No.”
“Or anyone else?”
Bluebell hesitated. “I didn’t stay very long, but I thought someone was coming. It scared me, because it was a man.” The coroner’s endeavours to establish the identity of anyone else present at the scene proved fruitless, and the jury brought back a verdict of murder by persons unknown. It took them some time to reach their decision since several jurors (those from Frimhurst) stoutly maintained either that it was an accident, that he did it himself or that that American young lady had more to do with it than she was letting on. Fortunately for international relations reason prevailed.
There was still no sign of Egbert, although a late and speedy luncheon was now being served, before the funeral at three o’clock. Ethelred had earnestly consulted Auguste last night over what might be a suitable luncheon menu to intervene between an inquest and a funeral. Auguste’s mind, naturally enough in the circumstances, had not been fully on the subject and all he could suggest was that venison should not be on the menu. Ethelred had given him a look of deep reproach and pointed out that buck venison had just come into season. Auguste had pulled himself together, and between them they had composed a menu of light, cold dishes, since it was not known how long the inquest might take, comforting soups and a good-tempered hot dish that would not object to a long wait in the chafing dishes. More attention was paid to the funeral tea which must, it was unspokenly agreed, in no way resemble the wedding breakfast.
“Cakes, sandwiches and no ices, Mr Didier,” Gertrude had decreed, though whether she was in a position to decree anything was a moot point, Auguste had reflected. Farthing Court at present had three persons to issue orders, Thomas, Gertrude and the new Lord Montfoy, and two chefs to carry them out.
At least, Auguste realised thankfully, that whether Egbert liked it or not, he could escape from Farthing Court tomorrow, as could the other guests. Egbert — where was he? Just as his eye fell on a most interesting locally made goats’ cheese, Mr Tudor whispered in his ear that the bell had been rung in the servants’ hall from Inspector Rose’s office, and he hurried to find him.
“Ah.” Egbert looked up as Auguste rushed through the door. “I thought you might have been my dinner.”
“I can arrange a lobster salad immediately. Perhaps some soup to precede it? Egbert, where — ?”
“And one of those bavarois things?”
“Certainly, Egbert. Egbert, where — ?”
“And a spot of cheese. I’m partial to Wensleydale.” Auguste surrendered and ran the several hundred yards to the Farthing Court kitchens. He reappeared ten minutes later, accompanied by two footmen and a trolley of food, and waited impatiently while the table was set and the first pangs of appetite assuaged.
“I hear the verdict was murder by persons unknown,” Egbert said at last.
“It’s not unknown now.”
“Who?” asked Auguste sharply, running his mind over his own luncheon table to see if there were any absentees.
“Naseby has arrested Bessie Wickman.”
“What?” Auguste was puzzled, not that Naseby had arrested her, but that Egbert had presumably agreed. Auguste didn’t like Bessie, but didn’t see her as a murderess. She was far too fond of her own seductive skin. “I am sure she would have no reason to kill — ”
“She had every reason, Auguste,” Egbert interrupted.
“Just because Lord Montfoy rejected her? Surely the idea of the deer’s head was simply revenge to make him look foolish on his wedding night
— even to miss it perhaps. And, besides, Bluebell saw her leave, and Montfoy was still alive.”
“What would you do if you were set on murder and a young girl came along? Say, sorry, my dear, go away because I’m about to commit a murder? Bessie went away all right, but then she returned. She had more motive than hurt pride.”
“What was that?” Auguste asked with an unpleasant foreboding he was not going to like this.
Egbert flourished a large canvas bag. “This is her peg bag. We found it hanging on her mangle.”
“What have pegs to do with it?” Auguste recalled having seen the peg bag and Bessie’s hand upon it. No wonder.
“It’s what else it contains besides pegs that’s interesting. One diamond necklace. Now do you see her motive?” Egbert flashed the diamonds before Auguste’s eyes.
“No,” Auguste obstinately maintained. “If he gave her that necklace, she had all she wanted.”
Egbert sighed. “You’re still hoping the murderer is Thomas Entwhistle, aren’t you?”
Auguste reluctantly admitted it, especially in view of the terrifying prospect before him. He realised he was clutching desperately at straws, at anything that could prevent his having to leave for Paris in just over two weeks’ time.
“Bessie had been given the necklace all right,” Egbert continued, “but it was an heirloom, remember. Arthur Montfoy was sure to demand it back once his marriage was established. He might even accuse Bessie of stealing it, even if she sold it immediately. With Montfoy dead, she was at liberty to do what she liked with it. We searched the house this morning; it was Twitch who found it.”
Of course, Auguste thought, tiredly. He himself had been within a few feet of that mangle, not knowing what it hid. He grappled to find a flaw in Egbert’s argument, and succeeded. “If she had murder in mind, why get Bluebell to spread the word so that more people would arrive?”
“It would provide more suspects.”
“Why tell Bluebell in the first place then? Egbert, it doesn’t make sense.”