Murder in Pug's Parlour

by Myers, Amy

  ‘So what you’re saying,’ said Walter, his feelings mixed, ‘is that it couldn’t possibly have been Franz who stole your plans.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Brasserby with scorn. ‘Only one fellow could have done it. Petersfield. Blast him. Lord Arthur Petersfield. It’s my view von Elburg is behind it all, Franz’s superior. Now he is a Kaiser man, but von Holstein can’t touch him. Even so he couldn’t risk getting the plans himself. He set up Petersfield to do it. Got some hold over him—’

  ‘Gambling,’ said Rose gloomily.

  ‘That it? Arranges for rumours of a break-in at the Foreign Office and hey presto. One good thing though –’ Brasserby paused and smiled – ‘A word in your ear . . .’

  At ten-thirty on the front steps of Stockbery Towers a large party of persons convened, the house party plus another thirty guns from the county. The younger and more robust men and the loaders strode off towards the first coverts; ladies and the more elderly gentlemen piled into carts. Round by the servants’ quarters, their own party was mustering, carts piled high with staff and hampers.

  Last of all to leave were Rose and Auguste, the latter now aware of the new development. After all but they had gone they were joined by a pale but excited Edward.

  ‘Nice day for a shoot, eh, Mr Didier?’ said Rose cheerily.

  Auguste cast a look at him. ‘The hunt is on, I think?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said Rose. ‘The beaters are out, the birds will fly, eh, Mr Didier?’

  Chapter Ten

  It was a text-book battlefield. Both sides ranged neatly, opposing each other, ready for the signal that would set the war in motion. Not that it was any kind of equal contest, thought Walter wryly. The beaters, representing the yet unseen pheasants, were lined up in Shorne Wood, their cream-twill smocks gleaming intermittently between the trees. Opposing them the guns, in some places double-banked on this day of the big shoot, loaders behind them at the ready, their masters’ honour their own.

  The keepers had been up since dawn, coaxing and driving the birds into the clumps. Shorne Wood, famous throughout England for its pheasants, would take two drives this morning; it was a large wood, carefully cultivated into coverts, and its conditions were ideal. For two days now there had been no noise on the estate; all farm machinery had been silent, the tracks passing the wood closed to traffic; even Hollingham Mill had been paid to be silent, lest the noise disturb the birds. The miller made no objection; he earned twice as much from the Duke this way as from his daily grind, not to mention the additional money he picked up from beating. Farm workers, even footmen, became beaters for the day, enjoying the break from routine, and either ignorant of or ignoring the fact they themselves were in the running to be winged or even worse, with the unknown quantity of some of the guest guns. ‘What was a peasant or two in the interests of the day’s sport?’ was the attitude of some of the more die-hard landowners of Europe. The Duke, however, was not of that ilk. When a beater had been wounded a year back by one of his guests, he had not only been fully compensated but had received the honour of a ducal visit, a situation he made the most of, thus doubling his official compensation.

  There was a tension hovering, for all the world like a medieval field of battle waiting the order to change. Women had no place in this world, though some stalwarts stood behind their menfolk. The Duchess set an example; her solidarity was especially noteworthy nowadays, as though she were gaining good points in store against her next lover. Behind Lord Arthur’s loader stood Lady Jane, bravely, palely doing her prospective wifely duty. She hated the noise of guns, and had it not been that she knew Walter’s eyes were probably on her, nothing on earth would have kept her standing there. The rest of the women were some way back, squatting uncomfortably on shooting sticks. The Marquise was today comfortably installed, to the indignation of the staff, by the luncheon tent; this was some way away since it had to be estimated where the drive would have reached by lunchtime; however she could hear distant shooting and yet be comfortable. She had no great wish to see Francois shooting. He was not a good shot, and only took a gun because the Duke had insisted, in the blind belief that the fellow enjoyed it and was only reticent in taking a gun because of his lowly position.

  The hunting horn was raised to the Duke’s lips, the clarion call given and the drive began. The keepers first, driving the birds out carefully, not too quickly, in ones and twos, concentrating them, directing their path of flight, the beaters and stops, as the far escort, wheeling round in a flanking movement ready to circle in.

  A moment’s silence, then: crack, staccato shots and the terse ‘Right’, ‘Left’ as the loaders, working as a team with the gentlemen, directed the line of fire on to the next target from their rear position. The race was won by the surefooted; nimble footwork was necessary if the best angle of shot was to be obtained. To Walter, watching from his vantage point on top of a wall, it was then the different personalities emerged; he watched the Frenchman, excitable and erratic, and passed a prayer for the beaters. If left to himself Francois would probably be a reasonable shot, but egged on by the scorn of his loader and his unfortunate position between the Duke and Lord Arthur Petersfield he did not stand a chance. By a lucky shot aimed at a partridge he brought down a pheasant, but it was one above the Duke, a feat that earned him a scathing look and further unnerved him. Moreover the bird was a hen and the Duke had decreed a cocks only day. Francois’ hands trembled and he ceded his place to the man behind.

  The Prince was a dead shot; the Germans usually weren’t, not being used to the British methods of shooting, but he had been in Britain several years and his calm Prussian efficiency and determination was rapidly bringing his score to rival the Duke’s. The Duke was not amused. An Englishman maybe, but not this Prussian fellow.

  Lord Arthur had a reputation to keep up. However, used to shooting with the Prince of Wales, he was also a diplomat. He knew when to fire and when to miss, when to shout a quick ‘yours, sir’. His diplomacy was well to the fore today.

  Walter, contemplating the spectacle of a Lady Jane with her eyes fixed in a determined expression of admiration and adoration on her intended, scowled.

  The world was all noise. Dogs barked, rifles cracked, the women, to the men’s disapproval, laughed and chattered. It was a good drive: two hundred and two pheasant, six brace of partridge, and only one unfortunate incident, when a pheasant falling to earth inconsiderately failed to avoid a portly industrialist from Thanet who fell to the ground as though poleaxed and had to be revived by an anxious Duchess and two spare loaders.

  Back at the luncheon tent Auguste Didier supervised the final garnish of the cold buffet. Edward Jackson was blithely uncorking wine under Ernest Hobbs’ supervision, polishing glasses and arranging napkins. Egbert Rose stood fidgeting by the marquee entrance listening to the shots now coming from the near quarter clump of Shorne Wood.

  ‘Rules for murder,’ he said at last. ‘Funny thing, Mr Didier. Here am I trying to catch a murderer, and there’s a whole line of menfolk up there banging away bringing death with every shot.’

  ‘Not unlawfully, monsieur.’

  ‘Depends on whether you’re a bird or not,’ said Rose, then reddened as though ashamed of being caught out in this flight of fancy.

  ‘You are not a countryman by birth, I think, monsieur,’ said Auguste. ‘In the country we cannot think about such things; for the cook if the bird is raised for eating we do not think whether it is right or wrong to kill it; it is part of our day.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You and I are not meant to change the world, monsieur, merely to do our job within it. You catch criminals to make the world a safer place; my part is to make it a little happier by my art. Look what happens when your Mr Gladstone decides to save women of the street. He is accused of having other motives towards them, because the world thinks of him as a statesman, not as a saviour of fallen ladies. No, he should have left that job to you.’

  ‘To me?’ said Rose, moment
arily diverted in thinking of Mrs Rose’s reaction had be returned home with a Hay-market belle on each arm and announced he was saving their souls.

  ‘Like your Cleveland Street.’

  They cast a surreptitious glance at Edward busily polishing a glass at the far end of the marquee. Edward caught Auguste’s eye and winked. How could such an innocent-looking face have survived such a life, thought Auguste.

  As if following his thoughts, Rose said soberly, ‘It’s the lads that suffer. We never laid hands on the real villains, the customers. Only the owners, and the boys. That’s how we got on to it. There was a question of some stolen money from the post office; we tracked it down to one boy and the trail led us to Cleveland Street. All the records showed on the clients was Mr Smith, Mr Jones; you could hardly expect them to put in the Earl of this or that. And Veck and Newlove didn’t give them away. They were too busy looking forward to comfortable retirement for their pains when they’d done their time. It hasn’t stopped at Cleveland Street either. All these fashionable greenery-yellery young men taking over London. Oscar Wilde – I had a look at his book at the Yard – Picture of Dorian Gray. If that’s literature, give me Mr Dickens. Yet it’s caught on. Some say it stems from the top – that Prince Eddy was implicated in Cleveland Street and that’s why there’s all this talk of his being married off quickly. It often happens, of course, to cover up—’

  The same thought struck them both: Petersfield and Lady Jane.

  ‘Too much of a coincidence,’ said Rose slowly.

  ‘It would explain why he attacked Edward, however.’

  ‘No, it ain’t logical,’ reasoned Rose. ‘The fellow poisons a blackmailer over the Rivers plans and then by chance sees this Cleveland Street boy and bumps him over the head. Villains don’t work that way.’

  ‘He would have no opportunity to poison Edward, though,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘But, now I think, why did Edward say nothing? He recognised him. Why should Edward lie?’

  Rose said soberly, ‘Ever been to one of these brothels, Mr Didier? It ain’t just the money. Some of the customers get attached to the boys and vice versa. Now perhaps young Edward thinks of Petersfield as a friend, as a –’ he paused awkwardly – ‘a lover.’

  Lover? Auguste thought about Edward, a strange mixture of stubborn loyalty combined with native cunning and distrust. Perhaps – yes. ‘And, Inspector, did we not tell Edward that the man who tried to kill him had endangered England’s safety? He would not connect that with Petersfield.’

  ‘Hell and Tommy, you’re right, Didier. But –’ They looked at Edward. ‘What’ll happen when he sees—’ As they spoke, the advance party of luncheon guests came into view. Auguste quickly hurried to see whether the hot dishes had yet arrived from the house. He kept a not obvious eye on Edward. Rose would be watching Petersfield. Hobbs was standing by the champagne table and the wine – the shooting would show a marked deterioration after all those bottles of claret had taken their toll.

  The women arrived first. The Marquise, with the wives of the day guests, lastly the Duchess and Lady Jane. The men came in either self-consciously proud, or studiously avoiding the gaze of their fellow guns. The Duke was happiest. He had shot the biggest bag of the morning. Over twenty per cent of the total kill. Loaders and beaters went off to a well-earned beer and a sandwich lunch a couple of fields away. The main party sat down at the three long tables, as the donkey carts from the Towers arrived with the hot food, the mulligatawny soup, the coq au vin, the filets de sole.

  The talk was, as usual, disappointing to the ladies: it was concerned with one topic – the shoot, the bag, the estimated bag for the afternoon, the missed shots, the lucky shots, bags of the past, bags of the future. The women might not have been present. So much for their gallant effort in accompanying their menfolk and talking an intelligent interest in their sport!

  At the entrance to the tent stood a footman with a tray of sherry. He was not in dress livery. He was not one of the Freds. He was Edward Jackson. Watchful beside him stood Rose, and from the other side of the tent from where he could observe the expressions on those entering, Auguste Didier.

  Last into the tent was the Duke’s party: the Duke himself, Lord Arthur, the Prince, Walter and a nervous Francois. He had not shot well.

  The Duke was slightly ahead of the others. He did not look at the footman. He was simply a Fred. He helped himself to a sherry. Then he observed the bandage and frowned in some perplexity: ‘Egad, aren’t you the lad—?’

  At that moment pressing behind him an arm – Auguste could not tell whose – shot up and the tray of drinks went flying. In the split second that the eyes followed the glasses, both Auguste and Rose missed the reactions of those entering. It was immaterial. The tension was in the air. Someone, somewhere, had reacted.

  Edward went scarlet, as Hobbs rushed forward grim-faced. It would have boded ill for Edward had not Rose stepped forward and said blandly: ‘Not his fault, Mr Hobbs. Trust you won’t reprimand him. Straight out of sickbed, you know. Now, lad, behind the tables,’ and, with curious eyes upon him, the ripple having spread round all the tables, Edward slipped thankfully from the doorway to behind the trestle tables. Heads bobbed to and fro as guests strained to see this first-hand evidence of Murder at the Towers, the word having quickly gone round of the miraculous recovery.

  The Duchess’s lips were set tight, but she was ever percipient of guests’ moods, and glancing round, she gave a light laugh. ‘Dear Edward,’ she cooed. ‘Such a favourite with us all.’

  The slight uneasiness that the presence of a policeman, with its unpleasant reminders of Honoria Hartham’s death, not to mention that of a murderer’s victim, albeit still alive, was quelled once tastebuds had a whiff of Auguste’s cooking. The guests had heard of this chef, rumoured to be a killer, yet he seemed to have a hand with the capon pie that was almost English, damned if he didn’t. And, after all, he’d hardly poison off them, would he? By the time they reached the spit-roasted turkey, the galantines and the aspics, they were captivated. Their hungry stomachs after the morning’s shooting made murder a good subject for mirthful discussion, once it was seen that the Duke had no objection. He looked a little grim at first, but cheered up once it became apparent that no one was blaming him personally. The Duchess resolved to make capital out of the disaster, and enlivened her guests with a low-voiced witty appraisal of the investigation so far, and the capabilities of the Yard.

  ‘Poor Honoria,’ she sighed. ‘How she would have despaired. Her standards ruined. To be investigated by a detective in a green-checked suit.’

  A trill of laughter greeted this sally as ten pairs of eyes glanced at the inspector and his Maidstone purchase.

  ‘He doesn’t quite look like a Sherlock Holmes,’ breathed one purple-hatted lady, her fox fur coming perilously near to sampling the mulligatawny as she twisted in her chair to look.

  ‘He’s Lestrade, not Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade of the Yard. My dear, do you have to entertain him at meals? Imagine having to be hostess when at any moment he might suddenly get up and say I arrest you, Laetitia!’

  Her Grace felt this was going too far. A cold eye was turned on the offender. ‘Are you implying, dear, that any of us—? This is a servants’ murder,’ she said, and a short silence fell. A servants’ murder was not nearly so interesting as speculation that His Grace had rid himself of his lady love by foul means. But one could hardly mention that to dear Laetitia.

  The buzz of conversation from the ladies rose and fell. They were mostly forced to chatter across their menfolk, who were talking in short incomprehensible monosyllables of jargon, nodding in satisfaction, and unaware of feminine distraction. Egbert Rose surveyed the groups from the doorway. Petersfield couldn’t try anything now, not with them all seated there and Didier with his eye on the boy. The cold buffet was removed and the desserts took their place. Then coffee. In deference to the need for accuracy in the shooting to come, no brandy or liqueurs were served, but the Duke gave the signal for the
men to congregate, to rise from the table and to retire to one corner of the tent to smoke.

  Rose gave an exclamation of annoyance. He had not expected this. Still, Didier was in that corner. He would watch Petersfield.

  ‘Which wood this afternoon, Stockbery?’ enquired a guest.

  ‘Cranesback,’ replied the Duke. ‘Fifteen minutes, gentlemen. It’s a half-mile walk.’

  Auguste, keeping his eye on the Duke’s group, listened with gloom to all talk of bags. He was so tired of inventing new recipes for the partridge and the pheasant. The pâtés, the pies, the roasts, a glut of game and then it would be over. But meanwhile his game larder was a forest of hanging birds, and Gladys and Annie would be spending half their days plucking, not cooking. He had noticed the kitchen-maids often decided to get married in the middle of the shooting seasons, giving in their notice. He hoped devoutly that Gladys wouldn’t. She was beginning to turn a nice hollandaise, and her pastry was almost better than Benson’s.

  He began to compose a receipt for pheasant stuffed with quail stuffed with foie gras, whilst watching the group of men. No, that could not be right. Too heavy. The foie gras would detract from the meats. He was looking at the problem the wrong way up. He must look at the whole, not the parts. The whole was too rich. From foie gras to plans, Cleveland Street. The truth exploded on him. They were looking at the problem the wrong way up. They should start with the whole and work back. And in a blinding flash he knew and turned for Rose. But he was there already, gripping his arm painfully.

  ‘Quick, man, where is he?’

  Startled, Auguste looked round. Mon Dieu, Edward had disappeared. A moment ago, he had been carrying coffee cups back from the tables, now where was he? He must be outside taking the crockery to the carts. Auguste peered in panic through the flap of the tent, but there was no sign of Edward Jackson.