by Myers, Amy
‘So?’ asked Rose, suspicious that this rigmarole was some kind of leg-pulling.
‘So, where did His Grace see a footman in full dress livery before luncheon?’
‘In the front hall?’ suggested Rose laconically. ‘Someone’s got to be on duty there.’
‘No,’ said Auguste. ‘Not in full livery. It would stand out like a black olive in a purée de marrons. And furthermore, His Grace would not go through the front hall before luncheon. He would go to the bootroom, then to the bedroom to prepare for luncheon, and for that he would go up the backstairs, not the principal staircase by the front entrance.’
‘If,’ said the inspector, frowning, ‘I follow your drift, Mr Didier, you’re implying he saw this fellow somewhere between the bootroom and the staircase—’
‘Perhaps even coming out of the servants’ quarters,’ said Auguste.
‘But the risk, man. At close quarters the Duke would recognise his own family, or a guest, whatever high falutin’ stuff he was wearing.’
‘But it was a reasonable risk,’ said Auguste, excited. ‘He was unlucky in running into the Duke, but one footman looks like another – with a wig on. Just a footman. They are all Freds to His Grace. He calls them all Fred because he does not know one from the other.’
Rose turned this over in his mind. ‘He’d have to know a lot about your movements,’ said Rose warningly. ‘The Duke might not know one footman from another. But you would – wig or no wig.’
Auguste shrugged. ‘Our movements are well known, monsieur. He would have half an hour before the upper servants returned to Pug’s Parlour, and the footmen on luncheon duty went to change. In all great houses it is the same. Servants’ dinner at twelve o’clock. And all the guests have their servants with them – easy enough to discover the layout of the house. And these guests here, they have visited many times, including last New Year, when they attended the Servants’ Ball and came through the baize door to our side of Stockbery Towers.’
‘The family would know how you work, of course,’ said Rose ruminatively. He lit a pipe, a rare sign that he was relaxed yet alert. Mrs Rose did not like a pipe. But it was a wonderful aid to concentration. He puffed away in silence.
Then: ‘There’s a flaw, Mr Didier, in this fairy story of yours.’
‘That is?’
‘Tain’t usual, I imagine, for family or guests to have a spare footman’s uniform handy to put on.’
Auguste explained: ‘The footmen’s changing-room is by the backstairs, only yards from the entrance used on return from the shoot. And it is on the far side of the baize door. That is where their livery is kept, and where they change into it at twelve-thirty, and dust in their violet powder. And there are always spare liveries there, in case extra help is needed at dinner. Monsieur, the murderer would come back from the gunroom; slip in and put on the livery, make sure no one was around, check through the window that no one was about to enter the garden door, and come out and into the servants’ quarters. If by bad luck he is spotted, no one will give a second glance at him. He will be invisible. He is a Fred. Then, after he had added the poison, he would emerge through the baize door and into the livery-room again; he would have about twenty-five minutes from start to finish before the footmen would come to change there. Then he would climb out of the window when no one was in sight and enter the garden door as though he had come straight back from the shoot.’
Two heavy draws on the pipe were the only evidence that Rose was listening. ‘Tell you what,’ he said conclusively, after a long pause, ‘I’ll think about it, Didier. Yes, I’ll think about it.’
‘Honoria was a friend, dear friend,’ explained the Duke gruffly, bewildered. His world was crumbling around him.
Rose’s instinct told him something was amiss; the Duke was avoiding his eyes, but nothing in Rose’s previous experience had acquainted him with the possibilities of clandestine passions amongst the aristocracy, whom he had been reared by his mother, a hard-working village school-teacher, to regard as irreproachable as the dear Queen herself.
The Duke’s not inconsiderable brain was working unusually hard. Torn between his simple code not to reveal the Prince’s rendezvous, and his anxiety to avenge Honoria, he grappled with the thought that there was no earthly reason that the Prince would want to poison her. All too keen on keeping her alive, so far as he could see.
‘Your Grace’ – now that Rose was in his stride he found the Duke fitted comfortably into one of his seven categories of witnesses. Having thus pigeonholed him, he felt happier. He was category four: ‘something to hide’; he’d play him along like he had Archie Wilson, a pawnbroker and trafficker of stolen goods. In fact they had a fair bit in common . . . ‘I heard tell you were talking to Mrs Hartham with several other gentlemen not long before the ball finished. Now what would that have been about?’
His Grace brightened. Now that was something he could talk about. And did.
‘And I also heard tell,’ went on Rose carefully, ‘that on the day in question, when Mr Greeves met his demise, you saw a footman in full livery before dinner.’
His Grace gaped at this abrupt change of subject. Patiently Rose repeated the question.
‘Footman? Dammit, man, you’re here to catch a murderer, not to investigate the running of me household.’
‘If you could remember, sir.’
His Grace frowned. ‘No discipline nowadays. Freds getting above themselves. How the devil d’yer expect me to remember a footman?’ Yet he thought, then his brow cleared. ‘Not dinner, man. Luncheon. Damned fellow. Full wig. Shouted at him, took no notice. Couldn’t chase him behind the door. That’s where I saw him. Going through that servants’ door.’
The Duchess, her immediate job over, was now in tears as the reality of Honoria’s death sank in. Not that these tears would show in front of Rose who was, after all, a kind of superior servant. A dangerous one though, and one that must undoubtedly be charmed. Yet she was terrified. What if Franz had visited Honoria that night and – ? She played with the thought that he had poisoned Honoria for love of her, Laetitia, but dismissed the idea. She was a woman who could face reality. But she could hardly ask dear Franz . . . She would have to remain in torment.
‘Oui, monsieur.’ Francois’ answers were almost inaudible.
Had he known he was cast as one of only four possible suspects for Greeves’ death, and thus Mrs Hartham’s – the women had been discounted as unlikely wearers of footmen’s apparel – he would be even more terrified.
When did he come back to the bootroom? It transpired that Francois could not remember exactly.
Had he spoken to Mrs Hartham at the ball?
He had not. He was with Madame la Marquise. She would speak for him.
The Prince von Herzenberg breathed deeply. It had not been a pleasant night and now today looked as if it boded as badly. This inspector was prying a great deal too closely. Almost as though he knew Mrs Hartham had not been alone. Yet that was impossible. He had removed the champagne and the glass. There was nothing left to show Mrs Hartham had had a companion. It did not cross his mind that someone might have mentioned the possibility that he was a visitor. If you told no one, no one knew. That was the code.
‘So you did not know the lady well, er – er, Your Highness,’ asked Rose solidly.
‘She was a guest here, as I am. I knew her as a delightful lady, a charming acquaintance.’
‘And at what time did you retire to bed?’
‘About twelve.’
‘And you did not see the lady after that?’
The Prince sat up stiffly. ‘Nein,’ he said forcefully. ‘I am not the lady’s husband.’ Mentally he relived the horror. All so terrible. He had seen the plate of sandwiches lying outside the room – their signal that all was ready. He had taken them in, and found her in playful mood. She had been flirtatious – a shared glass of champagne. Then her nibble at the dainty sandwich, another glass of champagne, an interval of love . . . and he shuddered. It had
happened so quickly. First she was there, then convulsed on the floor. He had automatically pulled the bell rope and then fled. He had no choice. Had the Kaiser learned that one of his followers had been attending the bedroom of a lady to whom he was not married and moreover one who was married to someone else, let alone a lady who had died, he would most certainly have been withdrawn from his English assignment. Back to Germany, back to von Holstein’s web . . .
‘You danced with the lady at the ball, I understand. And she sent you a message. Now what would that be, I wonder, Your Highness?’
The Prince stiffened. He must take care. Great care. ‘Merely an arrangement to share the last dance together, Inspector. She sent me a flower.’
Petersfield gazed at the inspector for some time before replying. If he hoped to put Rose off by this technique he was mistaken in his man. Rose was immune to it, as he was to the blusterings of Bill Perkins, the costermonger whom he had hauled in for information.
‘The order we returned to the bootroom? It’s two weeks ago, my dear Inspector. However, as I told the sergeant, I believe I was the first to arrive, followed by His Grace. Then came Marshall. After that, I cannot say. I left on Marshall’s arrival.’
‘At the ball, I believe you were talking to Mrs Hartham?’
‘I spent some time with her, we – er – danced together. We spoke of mere trifles, Inspector, as you will be aware one does at such times.’ If he hoped to discompose Rose this time by such tactics, he was again disappointed.
‘So, if I told you it was reported she talked of giving away your secret, I’d be wrong,’ Rose went on doggedly.
A nerve twitched in Petersfield’s face. Then he laughed lightly. ‘My secret, Inspector? Oh, a very nefarious secret indeed. She spoke of my engagement to Lady Jane; she had just accepted my hand. Mrs Hartham spoke of revealing it to His Grace before I did, that is all. Now this unfortunate business means I cannot speak to His Grace until after the funeral. So I must ask you, Inspector, to respect my confidence. Your word as a – um – gentleman.’ His eyes flicked over the ill-tailored suit and large brown boots, and he took a satisfied puff of cheroot.
Old Jebbins who was in charge of the gunroom was inclined to the truculent. He pointed out to the inspector that he was not going to leave off his counting of the ammunition just to talk about a shoot over and done with these two weeks. Once the majesty of the law had been impressed upon him, he reluctantly left his task and gave part of his attention to this ‘Lunnon’ fellow.
‘No,’ he said, with some satisfaction, ‘I can’t remember who were here, when they was here and when they left. ’Specially two weeks since. Why, bless you, there’s been a dozen shoots since then. I got better things to be doing. What kind of gunroom would I be keeping if I kept spotting who left when ’stead of counting the guns and ammunition now, you tell me that?’
To this even Inspector Rose had no answer and, for once in his career, retired vanquished.
‘To the bootroom.’ Walter paused. ‘I returned to the house about twelve-fifteen. I left the shoot shortly after it began. Lady Jane was kind enough to accompany me on a walk around the gardens –’ a slight exaggeration of the truth, but it would do. ‘We returned to the house together. She will vouch for me. But why? Ah, the maître has been talking to you, I see.’
‘The cook?’
Walter smiled. ‘Yes, the cook, though he would not appreciate the terminology. I hope, Inspector, you do not look in his direction?’
Rose sighed. ‘Everyone seems very keen to arrest the cook. Don’t see any reason to myself. Despite his cock-and-bull stories. Livery, pah!’
He watched Walter carefully and seemed satisfied by what he saw. ‘Fellow’s got a theory – one of you might have slipped on a footman’s livery, popped inside the door, poisoned the brandy and out again.’
‘Indeed?’ said Walter slowly, considering. ‘And you, Inspector? What do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t say it’s not possible,’ said Rose carefully. ‘’Course if Lady Jane will back you up that puts you out of the picture. Wouldn’t risk it, stands to reason.’
Walter’s lips twitched. He considered. ‘But if Didier’s theory is true, only a certain number of people could have done it, Inspector, allowing it to be unlikely a woman could accomplish the necessary deshabille in the time available. There are the Prince, Francois, Petersfield, and—’ He stopped.
‘His Grace,’ supplied Rose, matter-of-factly.
Walter rose to his feet angrily. ‘I do not feel, Inspector, I can sit here and discuss the possibility of my host being implicated.’
‘Sit down, sit down,’ waved Rose. Then, as Walter showed no sign of complying, more peremptorily, ‘Sit down. Cook keeps raising the question of blackmail. Do you believe him?’
‘Do you?’ rejoined Walter.
Rose almost smiled. ‘Let’s get him here,’ he said abruptly.
Auguste arrived, annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of a complicated farce normande, but was mollified by Walter’s presence.
‘Sergeant Bladon tells me, Mr Didier,’ said Rose slowly, ‘that you handed over the black book in somewhat unusual circumstances. Now, Sergeant Bladon, not being used to the wicked ways of villains the way I am, did not see the obvious – perhaps you wrote this blackmail book yourself, Mr Didier?’
‘Me?’ Auguste blinked at him, bereft of speech at the barefaced accusation.
Rose looked at him dourly. ‘Why not? You seem very enthusiastic about this blackmail; you gave the sergeant the book.’
Steel against steel. For the first time, Auguste felt a tinge of fear. He was well enough aware that it would suit everybody, except the servants, if the crime could be blamed on them, and preferably on the foreigner, and this man, he felt, might even be able to do it. He had the brain, unlike the others. He subdued his panic, glanced at Walter and set his reason in motion. He answered quietly. ‘I tell you this man Greeves was a blackmailer. Mr Marshall will confirm that his widow lives in great comfort. But what I cannot tell you, Inspector, is where his proof was kept. Mr Marshall says where did Greeves keep his evidence? I do not know, but I tell you this, Inspector Rose, if it exists and I believe it must, it will not be in a tree in the grounds, underneath floorboards, tucked under a mattress, no. He was a cunning man, a bold man, and it will be hidden in a safe place, but an obvious place, so that he could laugh at his victims. He was like that. He would laugh; not outwardly but inside himself.’
Inspector Rose nodded slowly, seeming to be satisfied at Anguste’s answer.
‘We have given it a lot of thought,’ said Walter, ‘Mr Didier and I. He would want his evidence near, not at his wife’s house, but where, we have no idea.’
‘Oh, I’ve an idea all right,’ said Rose. ‘Yes, I’ve a fair idea.’
It was almost seven by the time Rose was ready. By this time His Grace was nowhere to be found. Ten minutes elapsed before he was tracked down to the billiard-room whither he had repaired with Walter Marshall. Marshall made as if to go as Rose made known his wishes but His Grace asked him to stay.
‘Won’t be long, will you, Rose? Deuced good game, want to finish it, what? Give you five minutes, finish the game and then I’ll have to change for dinner.’
If Rose was disconcerted he did not display it. If His Grace was prepared to have a third party present at the discussion of his private affairs he was either a fool – or a very clever man.
But whatever, if anything, the Duke had feared, did not materialise. Rose did not ask him again about Honoria Hartham. He seemed much more interested in Archibald Greeves.
‘Was he what you might call a nice man, Your Grace?’
His Grace’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Nice? He was my steward. Don’t ask me if he was nice or not. Popular enough. Knew how to behave. Let him stay to drinks sometimes. Some sense of breeding.’
A glance shot at Rose should have warned him that he too was being judged on this score and failing.
‘A clever man, wou
ld you say, Your Grace?’
‘Did the accounts all right. Nothing wrong that I could see.’
Walter Marshall, sitting in the corner, glanced from one to the other. He tried to judge where Rose was leading, but it was difficult to assess. ‘A rich man, would you say?’
The Duke blinked. ‘Rich? Paid him well enough. Got a few valuables though. Asked me to look after them for him. Waiting to give them to this lawyer chap the widow is sending.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Rose. A smile of quiet satisfaction crossed his lips fleetingly.
The Duke looked surprised. ‘Show you tomorrow if you like.’
‘Now, please, Your Grace.’
His Grace frowned, ostentatiously took out his pocket watch and regarded it. Then he glanced at Rose and gave in. ‘In the safe, morning-room.’
Walter Marshall, keenly interested, followed.
His Grace swung out a rather bad oil painting of the eighth Duke to reveal a wall safe. Out of it he took a large packet.
They opened it up.
‘That’s my wife’s handwriting, dammit,’ said the Duke, staring.
But Rose was quicker than he. ‘I’ll take these, Your Grace.’
‘Yes, but wait a minute,’ said His Grace, puzzled. His brow was furrowed with the strain of thought. Laetitia’s handwriting?
Now His Grace was quite definitely upset. Dinner had to be put back half an hour. It was a gloomy gathering. Lord Arthur Petersfield, the Marquise, Walter Marshall and the Prince all seemed resigned to spending the rest of their lives at Stockbery Towers. Tempting as the thought would have been when they were first invited for the three-week shooting party, now that they were not free to return to the lure of London for the odd day or two, its delight was rapidly losing its allure. But the police had been adamant. Walter, who had managed to get leave of absence from Lord Medhurst, who was fortunately engaged in Newcastle on party business, was the most sanguine of the guests; Lord Arthur was impatient to leave the delights of Stockbery Towers for the fleshpots of London now that his goal had been achieved; the Marquise wished to return to her own country and the comforts of her own bed, despite the amenities she had brought with her. The Prince, his life complicated by a superfluity of women, thought longingly of his embassy behind its iron gates.