by Myers, Amy
‘My dove, listen carefully.’
Ethel listened. Her round innocent face grew flushed and pink. ‘Oh, I couldn’t, Mr Didier.’
‘Ma petite crème, you can, and you must.’
Ethel halfheartedly looked for a means of escape, but there was none. Auguste was holding her by the shoulders pinned against the blanket-room door, in a manner that would be most satisfactory under other circumstances. She began to whisper so softly he was forced to put his face a great deal closer to hers to hear.
‘And these plates of sandwiches, my dove. Outside whose doors?’
She understood immediately. All upper servants realised the reason for those nocturnal plates as a signal to the enthusiastic – or not so enthusiastic – lovers.
There followed a long list of names, but Auguste shook his head impatiently. ‘No, last Tuesday night. The day the guests arrived. Can you remember?’
Ethel looked doubtful. ‘The usual, Mr Didier.’
‘And that is?’
‘Mrs Hartham.’
‘And who is the guest that comes creeping in the night?’
Ethel looked prim. ‘I don’t know, Mr Didier, but—’ She hesitated then shut her eyes. ‘His Grace,’ she said firmly.
Auguste continued remorselessly. ‘And who else?’
‘Her Grace’s door,’ said Ethel, more forthcomingly. She had no liking for Her Grace who had once criticised the polishing of her boudoir Sheraton table.
‘The Prince—’
Ethel blushed.
So Walter Marshall was right.
‘And Lord Arthur, Mr Marshall?’
‘Keep to their own rooms in the bachelors’ tower. So they say.’
‘And what think you, my Ethel, of these nocturnal walks?’ She blushed, suddenly remembering her own recent walk by night, it occurring to her for the first time what Auguste must have thought. As if she’d ever . . . but then, Mr Auguste was a gentleman.
‘They’re gentry . . .’ she replied, wonderingly. Auguste bent the extra five inches necessary from his five feet nine to plant a kiss on her lips, musing again on the morality of the servants’ hall that never judged its masters by the standards they were forced to impose on themselves.
Auguste returned to give his attention to the final details of luncheon. Somehow even the excitement of spitch-cooked eels and chartreuse of partridge lacked its usual lustre. He had a problem almost more interesting. The murder of Archibald Greeves. As he stirred, seasoned, tasted, it occurred to him that perhaps the life of a detective was much like that of a cook, the experiments, the deduction, the coordination of elements, the basic routine . . . He checked the garnish for the cutlets, the dressing for the St Pierre. The fish with the thumbprint of God, or that of the devil; the John Dory the English called it. He covered the fish with the sauce, then garnished the sauce. Something stirred in his mind. He grasped at it, but it would not come. Something Walter Marshall had said? Something the Duke had said? It would not come. He must leave it there to simmer . . .
Luncheon concluded satisfactorily – and Auguste never failed, despite his experience, to enjoy a sense of relief that all had passed without disaster – he made his way to the library where he had arranged to meet Walter Marshall. But it was not Mr Marshall whom he discovered enjoying the purlieus of the Stockbery Towers storehouse of learning. It was the Lady Jane and Lord Arthur interrupted in the middle of a kiss. Lady Jane sprang back, stepping accidentally on the silk train of her muslin teagown, embarrassment changing to indignation as she realised who the intruder was. Lord Arthur remained cool, though there was a glint in his eye that did not bode well for Auguste should they meet at a time when he was not required to preserve appearances before a prospective bride.
‘Kindly withdraw at once, Didier,’ said Lady Jane coldly. ‘How dare you come in here?’
‘I beg your pardon, My Lady,’ said Auguste, endeavouring to look contrite. ‘I was expecting to find Mr Marshall.’
It was the wrong thing to say to Lady Jane. The ice in her eyes grew harder. ‘Mr Marshall, as you can see, is not here,’ she informed him loftily.
‘I can see that, My Lady.’
‘Then get out, fellow,’ drawled Lord Arthur. His words were quiet, his face remained pleasant, but there was something about him that made Auguste decide to take his advice quickly. As he closed the door thoughtfully behind him, Walter Marshall was walking across the ballroom floor. He nodded to Auguste and made to enter the library.
‘It’s occupied, sir,’ Auguste said apologetically.
The tone of his voice made Marshall look at him sharply. ‘Her Grace?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ah.’
Marshall stood, hand on knob for a moment, looking down at it intently. Then he let it go. ‘Reason as well as conscience doth make cowards of us all . . .’ he murmured. Then instantly he recovered himself and said briskly: ‘The morning-room then. It won’t be in use now.’
Auguste looked on him with respect. This was the French approach. He was not accustomed to finding it in Englishmen. Reserve, yes, the stiff upper lip, but the ability to use the brain when under emotion . . .
Auguste found it strange to be invited to sit down in the morning-room – to him it was the place where he stood respectfully waiting for orders.
‘Well now, my friend, what news?’
Auguste hesitated for a moment. But he had decided that he could tell Walter about Edward Jackson, now that his brain was simmering with that elusive idea. ‘For us, not good, not good at all.’ He proceeded to explain about the brandy, and the so important little sip taken by Edward.
‘Then tell me, Didier,’ said Marshall, ‘why are the police still so interested in this side of your famous door?’
‘The police do not know,’ said Auguste unwillingly.
Walter’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You have not told them—’
‘No,’ said Auguste with dignity. ‘I wished to reflect, before I tell him to tell them.’
‘You took a risk, my friend, and another in telling me. Suppose I tell the good sergeant?’
Auguste shrugged. ‘That is your decision, monsieur. But I believe strongly that the murderer is not one of us. I had an idea, but it will not come. It will, soon, however. It is there. Inside my head.’
Walter smiled. ‘And I’m to assist this painful birth?’
‘Alors, Mr Marshall,’ Auguste replied with dignity. ‘Only you can. I am thinking . . . the shoot on the day of Greeves’ murder. You attended?’
‘Of course,’ said Walter. ‘We all did that day. Even the women were enthusiastic since it was the first day. The sun was out and the Duchess dragooned us all into coming. I even had to take a gun myself for a few minutes.’
‘And how did you all come back?’
‘Ah,’ said Walter, glancing at him. ‘That I cannot tell you. I – um – left early and took a stroll through the gardens. But, Monsieur Didier, before you write me down as a suspected person, I do confess, I was not alone. However,’ he said hurrying over this, ‘I gather from the talk recently that the gentlemen returned to the gunroom together about twelve. The ladies come first normally – it takes Her Grace some time to repair the ravages of the morning in order to appear at luncheon. Why do you ask?’
‘In which order though, Monsieur Marshall?’ Auguste insisted.
‘I don’t see – well, as far as I can recall, Her Grace, Mrs Hartham and the Marquise came back first, then His Grace. When I returned with Lady Jane—’ he paused, frowning – ‘I found His Grace in the bootroom and Petersfield just leaving. I think François Pradel came in next, and then the Prince.’
‘And what order did you leave the bootroom in?’
Walter raised his hands helplessly. ‘I’ve no idea. We all were ready for luncheon, I recall that, though it was a scramble. It usually is.’
‘And what time does the shooting party normally return to the house?’
‘Oh, the same time as today roughly. We leave the
field about a quarter to twelve, and are usually in the bootroom about a quarter past.’
‘And which field was that?’
Walter shot him an amused look. ‘You ’ave ze theory, already, Inspector Didier?’ he mocked gently.
‘No,’ said Auguste sadly. ‘The watched pot does not boil.’
‘And suppose it does boil, what then? Have you proof? Proof of blackmail yet?’
‘No,’ said Auguste glumly. ‘But the Mrs Greeves, a plump pigeon, is she not, with expensive plumage? I think she does not live in fear of the workhouse that one. Her home, I would like to see it, know what it is like, but she believes me a murderer.’
‘Easily accomplished,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll drive there tomorrow. But do you think she has the evidence there? Is that where you think it is?’ An idea came to Walter, but he said nothing. He, too, would let it simmer.
‘No, I do not think so. This Greeves would want to gloat over his evidence. Here at the Towers he had a rich river in which to tickle many trout,’ commented Auguste, ‘if all our rumours are fact.’
‘And I another trout, messieurs?’
The Marquise de Lavellée had entered the room unnoticed, and stood imperious and commanding at the door. They hastily rose to their feet. Her eyebrows lifted as she took in Auguste’s presence. No teagowns for the Marquise. As strictly corseted as she would be all day, her heavy blue satin dress was plain by current fashions, subtly so, to draw attention to the magnificent pearls, round the high collar, which set off her white hair. Her lively dark eyes looked from one to the other with interest.
‘Gentlemen, be seated,’ she said softly.
Auguste remained standing uncertainly.
‘Monsieur Didier, I believe. Pray be seated,’ she commanded.
Auguste sat down, his respect growing. She had accorded him the monsieur; she knew a maître from a chef. She did not sit herself, but advanced into the middle of the room beautifully poised, hands held as only a Frenchwoman could hold them. ‘So it is la chantage, the blackmail, of which you speak? And our good departed steward.’
‘You guessed, Madame la Marquise?’ said Marshall astonished.
‘But of course. This Greeves, he tried to blackmail me. Me,’ she swelled indignantly. ‘So it is probable he blackmail others also. Pas difficile.’
‘And did he succeed in blackmailing you, madame?’ asked Marshall calmly.
‘No, Monsieur Marshall, he did not. I told him to tell everyone. To tell the Duchess, tell the Duke, tell the stableboy. I tell him to go to the devil.’ She paused and a smile of great sweetness came over her face. ‘So now you are wondering what this man Greeves could blackmail an old woman like me about, hein?’
They made deprecating noises.
‘Aha!’ said she, sitting down on a chair. ‘I will tell you. For I cannot be accused of murdering this man, if I tell you I am prepared to tell you what it was he knew about me. So, gentlemen, I tell you. Monsieur Didier, you are a Frenchman, you will not be shocked, I think.’ Yet she paused a little before she spoke, and the beringed fingers tightened in her lap. ‘Monsieur Francois, my secretary. This Greeves found out that Francois is more than a secretary. Much more.’
‘He is a lucky man,’ said Auguste rallying quickly and gallantly.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Didier.’ She inclined her head, then immediately rose to her feet. ‘And now, gentlemen, I shall leave the two detectives –’ she mocked them gently – ‘to their investigations.’ She hesitated and turned to Marshall. ‘As a gentleman, Mr Marshall . . .’
‘Of course, madame.’ Walter’s face was grave, perhaps, Auguste thought, a trifle shocked.
‘Et Monsieur Didier? A Frenchwoman’s honour is in your hands.’
‘Madame.’ For an instant as he bowed over her hand he was reminded of Tatiana – something in the smile, in the way she held her head. Then it was gone.
‘Ethel, my dearest, it is not simply to pick the grapes that I ask you to accompany me to the kitchen-garden conservatory,’ said Auguste firmly.
‘No?’ asked Ethel, her hopes rising. They were quickly to be dashed.
It had been Marshall who had pointed it out, and Auguste was amazed for not having asked Ethel himself before.
‘How is it, Estelle, that you know who visits during the night when good little girls like you – are you not? – are tucked up in bed? You leave the sandwiches, but how do you know for whom the signal is meant?’
‘I don’t,’ said Ethel, her brow puckered. ‘I suppose it’s the gossip.’
‘But this gossip. How do you hear it?’
Ethel considered. ‘From Mr Cricket,’ she said at last, ‘or Miss Fawcett, sometimes Mr Chambers. But mostly Mr Cricket.’
‘Ah,’ said Auguste. And doubtless this too was how Greeves got his information.
To see Hobbs was his next task. Now the police had abandoned their guard on Pug’s Parlour, Hobbs had moved in, taken loving possession of its leather chair and marble fireplace, and obliterated all signs of its previous owner. True, his possessions were not so good as those of his predecessor, removed now by the sorrowing widow, but they pleased Hobbs, who seemed remarkably unaffected by the fact that his feet now rested where the late steward’s remains had been only a week previously.
With some unspoken sense of decorum the upper servants were still taking their meals in Mrs Hankey’s room, but Hobbs obsessively occupied his own room at every conceivable spare moment.
Auguste found him there. He had always liked Hobbs, whom everyone else found rather colourless. Auguste did not.
‘So, Mr Hobbs, your own Pug’s Parlour at last,’ he remarked banally, looking round the familiar room, now suddenly strange.
‘Yes, Mr Didier,’ the habit of ages dying hard. The steward’s privilege was to omit the title, but Mr Hobbs was not yet so bold with his position.
‘We must start having meals again here – I’ve missed them,’ said Auguste with less than truth. For Mrs Hankey’s room was a great deal warmer for all its exposed position. Perhaps it had something to do with its occupier’s own generous curves. ‘You’re not nervous of my meals, despite what the inquest said?’ asked Auguste in jest.
‘I don’t hold with foreign food,’ said Hobbs heavily, ‘but I will say this. For a foreigner you cook all right, and there’s no one going to believe you made a mess of things, Mr Didier.’
‘The police think so,’ murmured Auguste. ‘Yet I had no reason to kill him. But you did, didn’t you, Mr Hobbs? Every reason. So it’s important you help find who really did it.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘Tell the police about Rosie, did you?’
‘No,’ said Auguste.
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Hobbs, staring at some point far beyond Auguste. ‘She was a good girl up to the time he got hold of her. Ruined her.’
‘La pauvre.’
‘And so she drowned herself – best thing really.’
Auguste shivered. The best thing? He began to look at Hobbs in quite a new light.
Saturday began early for the staff of Stockbery Towers and in particular for Auguste Didier, chef. Tonight there was another ball. When Stockbery Towers had a ball, Merrie England was reborn. This one had been arranged at short notice and tempers in the kitchens were higher than the heat thrown out by the ranges and ovens, already at full blast to cope with the number of expected guests. It was only a small ball; merely sixty people to be entertained. The refrigerators shook with ices; the cool larders burgeoned with raised pies, galantines and cooked hams. At eight o’clock the delivery men were coming in a continuous trail to the kitchen door. Already Auguste was moving as nimbly as Jacques le Jongleur, juggling tasks dexterously and fielding disaster before it occurred. The garnishes were prepared, all organised for the last-minute adding to the aspic jelly: the truffles, the plovers’ eggs, the quail eggs, the entremets, the jellies, the charlottes – Auguste ticked them off methodically in his mind’s eye on the system he had taught himself. The apprentice
learns from his master, he learns his way, his methods, he learns the basic craft, the tricks, the finesse. But a maître is born, not created. After he leaves the master, he is on his own, and upon his own genius he imposes his own discipline. Auguste made a face at the boar’s head, staring at him unblinkingly from amidst its aspic garnish. Not a real sanglier, of course. This was not La France. But it would do. A head of a bacon hog, cut deep and carefully boned, the bristles singed off, and inside his own special forcemeat of tongue, bacon and truffles, moistened with a mirepoix of wine. For ten days it had been marinating in its brine before cooking, intended for a grand picnic but snatched two days before its time for this ball. He would ask Gladys to produce some chrysanthemums from the gardens to finish the decoration; last time he had applied gum paste in the Continental fashion and there had almost been a disaster, with the heat of the room. A boar’s head that apparently wept tears of sorrow. Even a maître can err.
In the steward’s room meanwhile a reluctant Edward Jackson was being coaxed into a footman’s livery.
‘We need all the help we can get up there,’ said Hobbs firmly. ‘Just keep an eye on me, and I’ll tell you what to do.’
‘But I ain’t never been up with the swells before,’ wailed Edward as he was forced into stockings and breeches; he only fell silent as the wig was placed upon his head. Traditional to the last, the Duke insisted that full dress livery meant just that. For formal occasions their own hair brushed with violet powder was not enough for his footmen. Wigs were to be worn.
Edward peered at himself in the mirror.
Two cherubic cheeks peeped out from under an all-but snowy white wig giving his over-mature young face an innocence that was largely foreign to him.
‘Lucky we had this spare livery,’ remarked Hobbs complacently. ‘Off you go and give Mr Chambers a hand, young Edward, and remember don’t speak to no one if you can help it. Don’t you open your cockney little mouth more than you have to. You’ll look like all the others unless you speak.’