Murder in Pug's Parlour

by Myers, Amy

  Auguste bristled.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Walter, ‘no offence. I see absolutely no reason that you should have wanted to send the steward off to an untimely death even if you were at daggers drawn—’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Not too difficult,’ said Walter drily. ‘Archibald Greeves was not above dropping remarks here and there about his colleagues – those that were a threat to his sovereignty. Fortunately the Duke is too – er – unintellectually inclined to notice.

  ‘It seems to me, Didier,’ Walter Marshall continued, ‘that on today’s showing the local detective force is not likely to come up with the right answer. This is a problem that you and I, irrespective of our respective positions as guest and – er – servant, being the most logically minded people present have to solve.’

  Auguste’s chest swelled. His eyes gleamed. He saw the point. Were not the French the most logical nation in the world? Then he put that logic to work. Why should Walter Marshall be so interested in a mere chef’s plight? It could not be pure devotion to the cult of gastronomy, in saving Auguste for the nation.

  ‘Why?’ he asked simply.

  ‘You would agree, Didier, that someone in this house murdered Greeves? And that being so, would you not agree there remains a dangerous situation?’

  ‘You mean,’ Auguste thought carefully, ‘that it may happen again. This time for less cause, if it is presented, since the first time it was not detected. It is possible, yes.’

  ‘I shall not feel happy,’ said Marshall with difficulty, ‘about leaving this house while those still here might be in danger.’

  Auguste noted his deliberately offhand manner.

  ‘And you, my dear Didier, are the prime suspect at the moment, are you not? It must be to your advantage to help solve this case.’

  Auguste shook his head. ‘Non, monsieur, I ask you to believe me. The police are not interested in me. They tell me so and indeed were it so in truth, I should be in Maidstone gaol, not free in the kitchens of Stockbery Towers.’

  ‘Then I ask you to consider, Monsieur Didier, that your pretty little friend who was so concerned at the verdict might be next,’ said Walter firmly.

  Estelle? His Estelle? Impossible to think of his pretty Ethel the next victim of a poisoner. Unlikely . . .

  ‘Very well, Monsieur Marshall. Ecoutez.’ Realising the advantages of an ally on the far side of the green baize door, Auguste spoke. Fifteen minutes later Walter Marshall was in full possession of the blackmail theory, of the black book so interesting in prospect and apparently so disappointing in reality. He was also in possession of the ‘police’ theory of the Duke as intended victim. But Auguste did not tell Walter Marshall about Edward’s drinking from the brandy bottle. He was not yet confident enough to present such cast-iron evidence that the murderer belonged to his side of the baize door. He would tell him soon perhaps. The flavours were permeating, the marinade was working, instinct told him; soon some solution would occur to him.

  ‘So you feel one of the guests is responsible?’ said Marshall frowning slightly.

  ‘It is more likely Greeves was blackmailing them or the family,’ Auguste pointed out daringly.

  ‘Unless he took his goods in kind,’ replied Walter. ‘After all, he had to get his information from somewhere. The family or guests wouldn’t come right out and tell him.’

  ‘That would only apply to the family,’ pointed out Auguste.

  ‘Then the guests are ruled out anyway,’ said Walter.

  ‘No,’ said Auguste slowly. ‘Not necessarily. The guests at the moment are all regular guests. They have been here before. You all know how things are done. And,’ his eyes quickened, ‘Greeves’ duties took him to London to Stockbery House with His Grace to oversee the accounts. We do not know what opportunities he might have had there. A gentleman’s valet is sometimes his weak point and Greeves would have had ample occasion to talk to them, hand them a pourboire in return for information.’

  ‘At Stockbery House, yes—’ said Marshall, considering. ‘There was a ball there, in August for instance, we were all there. And other times – earlier in the summer. Ascot in June, for example. A big house party at Chivers, Lord Brasserby’s place. Greeves would have been there also. There, too, he’d have had ample opportunity to bribe the servants.’ He broke off as an idea came to him, one he could not yet divulge to Auguste. Instead, he said hesitantly, ‘I may trust you, Monsieur Didier, may I not?’

  Auguste drew himself up. ‘I am a man of honour, monsieur,’ he said with dignity.

  ‘Very well. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that there was scope for blackmail among the guests – there or here –’ Walter said diffidently, ‘should Greeves have acquired proof by whatever means.’

  Man of honour or not, Auguste was diverted to learn of the intrigues of the Honourable Mrs Hartham, of the suspected liaison between the Prince and the Duchess.

  ‘But these are affairs of the heart? One does not murder for that? In England?’

  Walter thought of the rules of the society in which he moved. Of the irredeemable disgrace if affairs were dragged into the public eye, especially for those in the Prince of Wales’ set, with the Prince still embroiled in the Beresford divorce scandal. ‘Oh yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I think to some murder might be a very easy price.’

  ‘And what of Lord Arthur?’ asked Auguste unthinkingly. Gossip travelled speedily in their servants’ kingdom. ‘An affair of the heart also?’

  ‘No,’ said Walter shortly. ‘But the rumours are that he has heavy gambling debts – baccarat. He treasures his friendship with the Prince of Wales, and the Prince is in enough trouble over baccarat with Tranby Croft and the Gordon Cumming scandal in everybody’s mind.’

  Auguste shook his head in wonder. A Prince being called on to witness whether a friend cheated at cards. All a matter of honour, it was said. Honour, yes. All men had their idea of honour. But that it should rest in cards! Strange, these gentlefolk.

  ‘There are other rumours too about Petersfield,’ said Marshall, slowly. ‘Unsubstantiated. They always float about.’ He hesitated. ‘Reasons that he is not married.’ His knuckles were white, and he put Jane out of his mind with difficulty.

  ‘Ah,’ said Auguste with interest. The English crime his countrymen called it. Then he realised the reason for Marshall’s hesitancy and hastily changed the subject. ‘And this German prince? What of him? Could the salaud Greeves have obtained bad information on him through his valet?’

  ‘There we are in deep waters, my friend. Not only deep but serious. I must be careful, because much of this concerns my job. But I can tell you this. There are some who say that Gladstone is too old, that the Liberals will be out of power for many years yet. Yet I believe that when the General Election is held next year, it will be not Lord Salisbury who is returned but Gladstone. And my colleagues think the same. Lord Salisbury is a great man, Didier, but he does not, in his colleagues’ view, see far enough. He sees, forgive me, our enemies as being France and Russia. And that, under Bismarck, might well have been true, cunning devil. But Bismarck has gone, and the Kaiser cannot determine whether to love or hate England. While Victoria lives, we are perhaps safe. But if she were to die . . . Moreover there is a Machiavelli in Germany who wields much influence behind the scenes, who stirs the pudding – von Holstein – is he friend or foe? We only know he perverts everything he comes across.’

  ‘Like Greeves,’ said Auguste, interested.

  ‘Very like your Mr Greeves. When I see the Prince, I remember that he is a diplomat in the embassy, and therefore probably the personal choice of von Holstein and von Holstein is the eminence grise of Germany. Early in his career, von Holstein was the chief witness in the case against Arnim, accused of spying in the Paris embassy. But some say now that von Holstein himself masterminds all spying in German embassies abroad. It is a wild point, and one I should not be making perhaps, but if this Greeves had come across something through the Prince
’s valet perhaps that put his diplomatic mission in jeopardy . . . It is a thought.’

  Ten minutes later Walter Marshall was in possession of the motives of such of the upper servants as Auguste knew, or guessed, including, after some hesitation, Ethel’s own. He had felt badly about this, yet if Ethel were to be safe, Greeves’ murderer had to be found, quickly.

  ‘And your own motive, Didier?’ asked Marshall quietly.

  ‘Mine?’ asked Auguste indignantly.

  A slight smile crossed Marshall’s face. ‘I have to say that a new parlour game incurring much mirth has been invented for after-dinner recreation – that of guessing motives for the demise of Archibald Greeves, not those from our side of the door of course.’

  ‘And what was attributed to me?’ asked Auguste grimly.

  ‘Oh, you would approve, Monsieur Didier. So far as I recall it was that Greeves had caught you boiling the sauce for a salmi of game.’ He laughed as he saw Auguste’s expression. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘let me get this straight, Didier. You say it is impossible for the upper servants to have poisoned the brandy during the dinner, but is it not possible they too had access to the morning-room while the bottle awaited the Duke?’

  Auguste considered and nodded. ‘But they could not know the Duke would not drink it himself?’ he added quickly.

  ‘Ernest Hobbs would,’ said Marshall softly. ‘But let us continue to the end of this argument. For logic’s sake. You also say it is impossible for any of us to have infiltrated beyond the servants’ door to have poisoned it while you were all at lunch. The ladies, perhaps? Myself even? I did not stay at the shoot that day.’

  ‘No, monsieur, the risk. Too great.’

  ‘Nor the men, when they returned from shooting, and before you returned from the servants’ hall? The door to the servants’ quarters is near the door where the men return from shooting. It would be easy enough to slip through; all of us know the layout of the place well enough. I’ve stepped out at the Servants’ Ball myself and know Greeves’ room. And servants’ luncheon is known to be at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘No time, monsieur. Again there is the risk of being seen going through the door by the footman on duty in the front house. Or the gentlemen returning from the shoot. They take their boots off, and chat. At half past twelve we come back to Pug’s Parlour, and the footmen change into their livery in their little room the other side of the door—’

  ‘So it seems the bottle was most probably poisoned in the morning-room,’ said Marshall slowly. ‘Yet it seems to me there is one thing you have overlooked, Didier.’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘If this book you tell me of is in truth Greeves’ blackmailing accounts, where is his proof? And what did he do with all the money? He had to be paid in cash. And you don’t blackmail someone without concrete evidence. He could not walk up to, say, Petersfield and say, “Aha, do you know what I know, my lord?” So where is it?’

  Auguste made a moue of disgust. ‘So, Mr Marshall, my dreams of being the great detective are shattered. I did not think of this. You are right, of course. It cannot be in Greeves’ room or the police would have found it, and there would be no more talk of sorrel purée. Besides it was too risky. As for the money – I think this wife, yes? His afternoons off?’

  ‘Now my turn to forget. So we go a-hunting you and I, Didier. I on my side of the door, you on yours. And, Didier – remember just one thing. The Lady Jane has no motive,’ Walter said firmly.

  Auguste smiled. ‘Je comprends. Nor in that case, monsieur, has Miss Gubbins. It is understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ said Walter Marshall, and laughed.

  The funeral of Archibald Greeves was a strange affair. It turned the natural order of hierarchy upside down. The relatives, having been entertained luxuriously if not warmly by the Upper Ten for two full days and one evening, were at the forefront of the church, a weeping Mrs Greeves heaving impressively behind a thick black veil, followed by the upper servants; at the back of the church the family and guests, there to show a presence. The coffin was taken from the carriage, its horses dressed in their rich black plumes, by three estate workers and, surprisingly, by the Duke himself, who maintained gruffly to Lord Arthur that Greeves had been a damned fine steward, whatever else he’d done. It was perhaps the one word of praise for the deceased voiced that day.

  A tight-lipped May Fawcett watched the coffin borne past. By her side Edith Hankey, their faces wet with tears less for Greeves than for themselves. Next to Auguste stood Ethel, a juxtaposition strictly forbidden under usual circumstances. But these were not usual circumstances and Mrs Hankey was too preoccupied and Ernest Hobbs too overcome with the dignity of his new position to raise objection. Auguste was touched by the girl’s devotion, seeing himself as a chevalier of old riding to arms to protect the damsel he loved. Ethel would be very easy to love. She would make a good wife – make someone a good wife, he thought hastily. He must be careful. Ethel was not one he could love lightly. Ethel would expect marriage. And even if there had been no Tatiana, a good maître should be married to his art, not a home-loving little wife. He should be celibate – well, in mind at least. Nevertheless, as he glanced at Ethel, her chin silhouetted as she stared ahead in solemn devotions for the good of the soul of a man who had never meant well towards her, Tatiana and celibacy seemed a long way away.

  What would it be like to have a wife? Marriage was a funny thing from a bachelor’s point of view. His eye was drawn to Mrs Greeves. Had that old devil once been passionately in love with that stout determined dragon?

  He tackled the dragon on the way back to the Towers.

  ‘Permit me to offer you, madame, my sincere condolences.’

  She glanced up at him through the thick black veil and even through that he could see malevolent eyes.

  ‘You’re that cook, ain’t you?’ she said. ‘The jury think you killed him. Why you’re not locked up, I don’t know,’ she added vindictively.

  He flinched. ‘I am not locked up, madame, because I did not poison your husband.’

  ‘You mean they can’t prove it yet.’

  ‘Madame, you are an Englishwoman and Englishwomen are always fair-minded. It is not proved I am guilty and until then I am innocent. This is not France, madame.’

  Perhaps something about his face convinced her, for her tone was less harsh when she said: ‘That’s as maybe. But the end’s the same. He’s dead. And where’s my money coming from now—’

  ‘I am sure His Grace will—’

  She laughed scornfully. ‘That pittance – after what my Archibald—’ She glanced at him. ‘He was a generous man.’

  ‘Might I call on you, madame? I wish to discuss—’

  She looked up at him. ‘Think I’m going to tell you where I live? I’d be murdered in me bed.’

  Auguste noted her expensive hat, he was a connoisseur of women’s dress. It was not bought out of a steward’s wages, that. Either Archibald Greeves brought home the takings of his blackmailing activities every Wednesday afternoon, or else she was a poule de luxe. And that, looking at her, seemed extremely unlikely.

  Chapter Five

  ‘She’s gone, Mr Didier.’

  Five pairs of eyes regarded Auguste with shock and distress, confident that he would produce the remedy for this calamity. Mr Didier was their maître, despite what the jury said. He would know.

  He looked at his minions in despair. Was there no one? After all his training? Was tragedy to strike again without let or hindrance?

  ‘Quickly, Gladys. Cold water, vite, vite.’

  In blind obedience, Gladys scuttled to the scullery, pitcher in hand, and returned, still quivering, lest the reponsibility for the catastrophe fall solely on her skimpy shoulders.

  Auguste seized the pitcher, and gently, but oh so gently, dripped it on to the corpse. Slowly with gentle manipulation the egg yolks bound together and unified. Disaster had been averted. The hollandaise was secure. Time enough to apportion blame hereafter. Auguste s
ighed. Perhaps he was wrong ever to imagine he might leave even the simplest part of a sauce to a junior. He thought of Monsieur Escoffier who would never delegate any part of la sauce to an apprentice, no matter how promising. Yet how were they to learn if never entrusted with real responsibility?

  A quick check of the stuffed pike, the port and chicken pie, the turkey in aspic, the truffle-filled pheasants, the poached soles and Auguste’s mind was eased. It was, after all, only a light Friday luncheon, and the roasts he knew could safely be left to William Tucker, the pastry to Joseph Benson. They would never be maîtres, of course, but they had promise, yes, great promise. Tucker had a rapport with spits and ovens, knew precisely the effect of each change of position, each increase of heat. It was a pity his facility went more to old-fashioned ranges than to gas ovens, which he eschewed. Strange for a young man, but there it was. Progress had its drawbacks, he said, and give him the old ovens.

  Yes, Auguste could safely leave luncheon for the moment, in pursuit of an equally if not more pressing problem. Miss Gubbins was flustered at being thus interrupted in the middle of her routine, even by so welcome a visitor as Mr Didier, and felt her need to impress him by her control of the small bevy of print-gowned underlings before dismissing them and turning, heart fluttering delightfully, to Auguste.

  ‘My Estelle, the affair becomes serious, yes?’

  Ethel nodded fervently. She had been scared by the inquest, not knowing whether at any moment Sergeant Bladon might descend with the full majesty of the Law, handcuff her beloved Auguste and remove him where she would never see him again. Ethel was a sensible girl, but young, and she too was influenced by the awful adventures of Peggy in the latest issue of her Girls’ Companion.

  ‘We have to think for both our sakes, yes?’

  Ethel nodded even more enthusiastically. That little word ‘both’ gave her young heart a thrill. She was not to know that Auguste had simply been thinking that Sergeant Bladon’s foolish hand might yet be laid on her as well as Auguste. If he were to discover that Edward had drunk from the brandy bottle, then the Kent County Police would look no further than the inmates of Pug’s Parlour for their villain. As yet, Auguste could not think, despite application of his French logic, of any solution to the problem of how the family or guests might be implicated, but still he clung with all his English mother’s obstinacy to the theory of blackmail.