Murder Under The Kissing Bough: (Auguste Didier Mystery 6)

by Myers, Amy

  ‘So when Nancy mentioned Pall Mall, I told her at once I understood,’ Gladys added proudly.

  ‘She mentioned Pall Mall – you’re sure of that?’ Rose asked sharply.

  ‘She did so like to be mysterious, but she knew my little weakness and so naturally confided. It’s about ginger, isn’t it? And honey and so on. And the pudding. “Oh yes,” she said, “you’re right, Miss Guessings. My story is about the Pall Mall Pudding with a dangerous mix.” I can hear her now. Saying those very words. I’ve read about it, you see, ginger being a little weakness of mine. They sweep up sand and dirt from the warehouse floors and put them in the ground ginger, you know. And sometimes they add Plaster of Paris and gypsum too. I do hope,’ she rushed on, ‘Scotland Yard are investigating.’

  ‘We’ve got a Food and Drugs Act for that, ma’am,’ said Rose patiently. ‘Now—’

  ‘And honey – that’s mainly sugar – starch. And jams, they’re all made of turnips.’

  ‘Not my jams, Miss Guessings,’ said Auguste firmly. ‘Mine are made from the purest ingredients.’

  She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Even ground ginger? What can a gentleman know about puddings? Oh, I forgot, you’re a cook, aren’t you?’

  ‘Madame, I am the cook, the maître chef. And you may be assured no pudding or food for which I am responsible, as I am here, is adulterated with Plaster of Paris.’

  Colonel Carruthers marched in as if a Wellington advancing to his Waterloo. He almost saluted, but instead sat down with a harrumph.

  ‘Gather you want to see me. Nothing I can tell you. Never notice girls. Why can’t you have men servants here?’ he shot at Auguste. ‘Girls should keep out of sight, that’s my view.’

  ‘Did you notice the murdered girl, sir, either at table on Christmas Eve or on Christmas morning?’ Rose showed the Colonel a photograph, and he turned pale.

  Then recovering, ‘No. She could have been serving me dinner and tea for the last twenty years and I still wouldn’t recognise her face. Why?’ he shot out as if on parade at Oudenarde.

  ‘The girl was a journalist, sir, involved in investigating a crime.’

  ‘Crime?’

  ‘We think perhaps a series of art thefts in London,’ lied Rose blandly.

  ‘Convenient,’ snorted Carruthers. ‘So that’s why we’re being marched off to Hertford House this afternoon.’ He scowled at Auguste. ‘You behind all this, are you?’

  ‘Non, monsieur, I am not a robber. I am a cook by profession.’

  ‘So you’re the one responsible for that blasted mess you dare call kedgeree?’

  ‘Not this one, sir. It is the chef’s.’

  ‘In overall command, aren’t you?’ barked Carruthers. ‘In my day you’d have done the decent thing. You’d have been found dead with a Martini-Henry beside you.’

  ‘I think, Inspector, as a visitor from Germany, it is hardly likely that I would choose to spend Christmas murdering a girl I’d never set eyes on before.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said Rose. ‘On the other hand we have to speak to everyone.’

  ‘Another servant seems the most likely culprit,’ offered Thérèse helpfully.

  ‘Possibly, but unlikely, given who she was.’

  The beautifully arched eyebrows were raised.

  ‘A news reporter working on a story about art thefts.’

  ‘Indeed?’ A flicker of interest passed over Thérèse’s face. ‘I must mention this to my husband. He is a connoisseur of art.’

  ‘A diplomat at the Kaiser’s court, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Thérèse. ‘He is at the moment in Hungary, however, a place I have no liking for, hence my visit to your country.’

  ‘Do you recall the young lady who brought your tea?’

  ‘I recall receiving tea,’ she answered. ‘Does this make me a suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘No more than everyone else, ma’am. You and your companion and Mr Bowman would have been at the end of her round, being on the second floor.’

  Her eyes flickered sharply. ‘You mean if any of those served earlier murdered this poor girl, there would have been complaints from other guests that their tea had not arrived. Therefore, if I am last, I had the best opportunity to murder her.’ She smiled. ‘Might I point out, Inspector, that if as you say this young lady was a reporter, she clearly had reason for being here. If she wished to speak to one of the guests about this reason, she would naturally leave them till last and serve us out of order. How, Inspector, can you tell that I was last?’

  ‘She’s right of course,’ said Rose after she had departed. ‘It could have been any order. Bessie wouldn’t notice, she’d be busy.’

  ‘Or it could have been any of the people Bessie served after Bessie had left for breakfast,’ Auguste pointed out.

  ‘Or even you,’ grunted Rose crossly, regretting it as he saw Auguste’s hurt face.

  ‘Marie-Paul Gonnet,’ announced the companion, in a low voice, keeping her eyes down as though even here she must remember her position.

  ‘Have you been to England before, Miss Gonnet?’

  ‘It is my first visit.’

  ‘You speak English well.’

  ‘I learn it from my employer.’

  ‘In Germany?’

  ‘No, in Paris where we spend much time.’ She folded her hands in her brown silk lap, a curious stillness about her body that reminded Auguste of something he could not identify. She sat obediently, he noticed, waiting to be asked questions, never volunteering. The perfect companion.

  ‘Did you receive tea that morning?’ Rose went on.

  ‘I do not take tea. I go into Madame’s room at about eight thirty.’

  ‘To help her dress?’

  For the first time a flash of individuality. ‘I am not a maid, monsieur, I am a companion.’

  ‘Madame has a maid with her?’

  ‘Non. I –’ she hesitated. ‘I do assist Madame with her dresses if she requires, and the hotel has excellent services if required. Madame had only to ring the bell.’

  Auguste preened himself. Naturally his hotel was well run.

  Bella flashed a smile at Auguste. ‘Isn’t this fun? I feel like one of those damsels in distress in the Strand Magazine.’

  ‘Far more beautiful and intelligent than they, madame,’ he murmured gallantly, then wished fervently that he had not, since the warmth of the ensuing smile and the twinkle in her eyes boded ill for the future.

  ‘Yes, a girl did bring me tea – I hardly noticed her, save that she was plump,’ she answered Rose’s question. ‘I was asleep. It was a little late when I awoke. I had had rather a disturbed night,’ she added innocently.

  ‘Why did you decide to come to England for Christmas, madame?’ Auguste tried to ignore the dancing eyes of invitation.

  ‘Paris is not entertaining at Christmas. England is. My husband finds my family in Hungary – shall we say, uncongenial. So we come here,’ she explained.

  She spoke easily, frankly, yet why did it seem to him just a little too easily, as though these were words she had rehearsed? Auguste shrugged the sudden feeling off; he must not let the lovely Bella prey on his mind – or his body.

  Egbert Rose pondered on the Marquis. Difficult, these diplomatic types. He’d already thrown Auguste out of the room, as a condition of his condescending to speak to the police at all. ‘I’m going to be frank with you, sir.’

  A flicker of an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s rather more than the murder of a housemaid I’m concerned with. The girl was here on a story – she picked up the whiff of a plot to kill the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Ah.’ The Marquis was at once most interested. ‘Does this have connections with Paris also?’

  ‘It does, sir. The Sûreté passed the information to me.’

  ‘And I, Inspector, passed it to them.’ He paused, his face impassive. ‘I do not approve of the British handling of affairs in Africa. Nevertheless, I cannot approve of assassination either. Through our African sources
we have contacts with the Transvaal government. It is indeed disturbed by the sudden friendship of the Kaiser with your country, monsieur, since, as you know, Germany is one of the main sources of their armaments. There are factions that see the war as by no means over, despite Lord Roberts’s temporary achievements – if achievements they are. They wish to make the task of Lord Kitchener most difficult and there are arms dealers everywhere, sir, and manufacturers – in our country and even in yours too – that have every desire to support them. And that was well before Kruger was refused an audience by the Kaiser on his visit to Germany. At that point one of his party with business reasons of his own for continuing the war came immediately to Paris, and then to Brussels, we gather, there to plan a blow that would throw not only Britain into turmoil, but undoubtedly prolong the coming of true peace in South Africa.’

  ‘Names?’

  The Marquis shrugged. ‘Inspector, you ask the impossible. The Boer is on his way back to South Africa, the Sûreté agent was murdered on his way back to Paris – and we do not know whom the Boer met in Brussels. The man is a shadow.’

  ‘Or woman.’

  ‘Or, as you say, woman.’

  Sir John Harnet bristled. ‘Stuff and nonsense. De Castillon’s trying to make himself important again. He’s a provincial, you see. Trying to show he’s as good as his Parisian colleagues. No one would dare try to assassinate the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘How about Sipido in Brussels last April?’ Rose asked quietly. ‘He tried all right, got close to the carriage window and fired several bullets. Only the fact he was a bad shot saved the Prince and the Princess.’

  ‘That was different. Sipido was a crazed youngster acting alone. If there was a conspiracy with the Boers involved, I’d know about it.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we have to take the threat seriously.’

  Sir John ruminated. ‘Did he tell you about the Ashantis?’

  ‘Ashantis?’ repeated Rose blankly, envisaging painted warriors with spears launching an assegai attack on His Royal Highness in the midst of Paddington Station.

  ‘Thought not,’ Sir John rumbled with satisfaction. ‘If that girl was after a story, ten to one it’s about that, not some cock and bull tale about shooting Albert Edward. The Golden Stool of the Ashantis, their symbol of kingship.’

  ‘Something like the Coronation Stone in Westminster Abbey?’

  ‘Entirely different,’ said Sir John testily. ‘They’re Africans.’

  This was not the moment for an anthropological discussion of ancient kingship beliefs, Rose decided. Edith was a fervent reader of folklore. Sometimes he thought she believed King Arthur was waiting in Epping Forest to be summoned by Egbert Rose whenever he had a difficult case. It was a comforting thought, but impractical.

  ‘The Ashantis hid it in ninety-six when King Prempeh agreed to co-operate with the Governor.’

  Agreed to co-operate was not how Egbert Rose had read the news, but he remained tactfully silent.

  Major Dalmaine limped in, sank down in the chair, stretched out his leg. He had been gratified that Rosanna had enquired after his wound at breakfast. ‘Volunteer battalion, the Queen’s Own the Royal West Kents. Home –’ he hesitated – ‘on leave.’ No need to specify just how uncertain his military career looked.

  ‘Seems odd to choose to come home for a Christmas alone, sir,’ Rose commented mildly.

  He reddened. ‘Yes. Unfortunately my sister was called away, and so planned for me to spend Christmas here.’

  ‘When was that arranged, sir?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Early in December, I expect.’

  ‘What do you do out there, Major? On the staff, are you?’

  ‘Staff, Inspector?’ He looked astounded. ‘I fight, sir. I fight.’

  ‘You weren’t connected with the annexation celebrations at all, then? Had no contact with the top brass on the Boer side?’

  Dalmaine stiffened. ‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘I did not. I am a fighting man, as I told you.’

  ‘Tea, sir.’

  ‘Tea?’ Dalmaine was thrown.

  ‘You received it on Christmas morning?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t remember who brought it. A fat girl picked up the tray,’ he announced unenthusiastically.

  ‘But you don’t recall the girl who brought it?’

  ‘No,’ he replied abruptly.

  Thomas and Eva Harbottle insisted on being interviewed together, though this did little to sustain their morale since they seemed ill at ease.

  ‘Did you both receive your tea on Christmas morning?’

  ‘We are married, Inspector.’ A mixture of pride and coolness in his tone at the implied suggestion that they might have been separated. ‘Yes, we did, thank you. I’m afraid there is little we can tell you about the girl that brought it, except that she seemed preoccupied, in a hurry. I remember Eva,’ he smiled fondly at his wife, ‘made a joke and said she must be anxious to get to breakfast.’

  Rose smiled politely. ‘You’re not English, are you, Mrs Harbottle?’

  ‘We met in Amsterdam,’ Thomas answered quickly for her.

  ‘Is that where you were born, Mrs Harbottle?’

  ‘No, I am German,’ she announced quickly.

  ‘A very interesting city, Amsterdam,’ began Thomas loudly. ‘We are on our way to settle in England. Eva has not yet met my parents. We are looking forward to visiting them, aren’t we, Eva?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ his wife replied obediently.

  Rosanna entered briskly, her cheeks glowing, her eyes bright. ‘I must warn you, Inspector, my sisters have no intention of being separated. They are outside now planning something.’ Her eyes danced, belying her apologetic tones.

  ‘Your choice to come here, was it, Miss Pembrey?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘But I am only twenty and Sir John looks after us in England until I am twenty-one. And if I am not married by then, I suppose, longer than that. I intend to be married by then,’ she added firmly.

  ‘To Major Dalmaine?’

  She hooted with laughter in an unladylike way, for the first time resembling the twins.

  ‘No, Inspector. I have my own plans.’ She smiled brightly. ‘It is of course a most unsuitable match. The Strand Magazine and Peg’s Companion would both approve. He is the completely penniless son of a good family of impoverished means. And it just so happens he lives in London,’ she added artlessly.

  The twins followed her in, endeavouring to look extremely solemn. One wore a Sherlock Holmes-type deerstalker perched over her blonde curls; the other carried an attaché case and a magnifying glass.

  ‘We’re here to help all we can, Inspector,’ Ethel announced importantly in a deep voice. ‘Aren’t we, my dear Watson?’

  ‘Right you are, Holmes!’ announced her sister.

  Rose sighed. Auguste shrank back, feeling he could cope with twenty Fancellis more easily than this pair.

  ‘What we plan to do,’ Evelyn announced brightly, ‘is to make it a sort of parlour game.’

  ‘Game?’ Rose frowned. ‘Murder ain’t a game, young lady.’

  ‘We know that,’ retorted Ethel severely. ‘After all, I was the one who found the body.’ When she judged Rose looked sufficiently penitent she went on: ‘We thought if we made it a Sherlock and Watson investigation, and got all the guests talking amongst themselves, we could find out things for you. After all, there can only be one guilty party, can’t there? So if the others became interested and started talking, all sorts of things might come out that you would never think of asking.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Auguste, seeing trouble lying ahead. Reproachfully they turned their full charm on Rose.

  Charm he was impervious to, potential he was not. But in this case – ‘Theoretically, young ladies, you’re right. But I can’t let you do it.’ Their faces fell. ‘You forget,’ he told them soberly, ‘there’s a murderer amongst us. And murderers, young ladies, after they’ve tried it once, sometimes get a taste for it.’

  The twins were i
mpressed, or seemed so. Nevertheless, when they left, Auguste distinctly heard one say, ‘We have our methods, Watson.’

  ‘She came at seven thirty,’ said Danny obstinately, glaring at Rose. ‘Then she left. You know she did, she served teas.’

  ‘How do we know it wasn’t eight thirty?’ enquired Rose grimly.

  Danny blenched. ‘Why would I have killed her?’ he asked vehemently. ‘Why?’

  ‘Same reason any young man kills a girl,’ Rose informed him.

  ‘Your passions may get aroused in cellars at seven thirty in the morning, Inspector, but—’

  ‘What the Inspector means, Danny,’ Auguste hurriedly interrupted, seeing Rose’s usually impassive face begin to show more than a few signs of dislike of Danny Nash, ‘is that it seems strange that you should be so devoted to protecting a colleague that you give up Christmas to sleep in a cellar.’

  Danny opened his mouth, then shut it again, his face slowly turning brick red.

  ‘I’ve good news for you, Mr Nash,’ said Rose grimly. ‘You can move out of your cellar – and into the hotel. Where my men can keep an eye on you. A close eye.’

  ‘Now we’re permitted in here again,’ said Bella, following Auguste into the drawing room where he had superintended the hasty dusting of the room, ‘I can take advantage of you,’ advancing on him meaningfully.

  ‘Not here, madame!’ he cried aghast. ‘Just think, if we were to be discovered on the sofa en déshabillé, your husband—’

  ‘Why, Auguste, I only meant a tiny kiss under the mistletoe.’ Laughter bubbled up as her hands stole round his neck. ‘What did you think I meant?’

  The kissing bough twirled and turned above them in the slight draught through the windows, as her lips met his, and for once luncheon was not top of the manager’s list of priorities.

  ‘If an art theft is supposed to be the reason for that girl getting murdered, are you sure,’ enquired Sir John somewhat querulously, ‘that we are safe here with merely one constable?’ He gazed suspiciously around the Wallace Collection newly open to the public as though the Watteau before him might be snatched before his very eyes.