by Myers, Amy
‘It’s not a leap year, dear Gladys,’ he tried to say fondly.
‘I know that,’ she said sharply.
‘Dear lady, would that I could.’ He sighed, thinking frantically.
‘Why couldn’t you?’
This was more than a joke, he thought feverishly, forgetting it was one he had fomented himself. ‘I have a wife,’ he announced baldly.
‘But you said you were a widower,’ Gladys cried piteously.
‘Slight exaggeration. Invalid, you see. Don’t see much of each other.’
‘Oh.’ Gladys was pink, down, but not out. ‘You,’ she said deliberately, ‘are not all you seem to be, Alfred Bowman. And now I know, others will too.’ She hurried away, leaving him staring after her in dismay, giving no thought at all to the mummy of Seshepsebhet.
‘Don’t believe in assassinating myself,’ remarked Carruthers somewhat ambiguously, striding through the remains of one of the Seven Wonders of the World with scant appreciation of the Statue of Mausolus.
‘Nor me,’ agreed Dalmaine bleakly. Rosanna had slipped into the manuscript rooms and strictly forbidden him to follow her. And wherever he looked, he seemed to be surrounded by lumps of stone depicting gods chasing goddesses. It wasn’t like that in real life, he thought gloomily. The best they could hope for was a good smoke with another god while the goddesses tripped around doing as they damn well pleased. Women! In the circumstances, Carruthers seemed a good choice of companion.
‘Never works,’ declared Carruthers judiciously, the old advising the young. ‘Besides, we can’t have foreign women coming here and killing off our royal family. You have anything to do with this?’ he shot at Dalmaine unexpectedly.
‘Me?’ yelped Dalmaine in alarm.
‘I’ve been watching you, young man. You’ve got something up your sleeve all right. Mind you, I know you’re a West Kent but even the Royals choose their company. What’s between you and that Frenchie?’
‘Didier?’ asked Dalmaine without hope.
Carruthers snorted. ‘De Castillon.’
‘You see, always you take what is not your own,’ said Eva fiercely, gazing rapturously at the Elgin marbles.
‘Come now, it was a legal agreement,’ said Thomas soothingly.
‘Like the annexation of the Transvaal?’ asked Eva.
‘Shh!’ said Thomas, glancing round quickly in case they were overheard.
‘The time is over for shushing, Thomas,’ declared Eva forthrightly. ‘Did you not hear the Inspector say that the Boers are rising?’
‘No,’ said Thomas firmly. ‘I heard him say someone is going to try to assassinate the Prince of Wales. And they think it is a Boer plot.’
‘Huh!’ announced Eva fervently. ‘This is but the beginning.’
‘You are British now, beloved,’ soothed her husband hopefully.
‘England!’ She turned on him and laughed. ‘Since I arrived, there has been nothing but murder and policemen and talk of murder. And you tell me of England’s green and pleasant land! Never, never, will I be English.’
‘I wonder if you are aware,’ observed Thomas desperately, ‘that sixty-six years ago the man who smashed the priceless Portland Vase could not be accused of having committed a crime? He could only be accused of breaking the glass case in which it was placed.’
Eva Harbottle ignored this, a slight smile on her face. ‘Tomorrow, Thomas, now that they have found the person who is planning to kill the Prince. . .’
‘Yes, dearest?’ he asked guardedly.
‘I thought we might go to Paddington to see the royal procession,’ said Eva firmly.
‘What an excellent idea,’ said Thomas unhappily.
Bella sidled up to Auguste. ‘How delightful it is to be surrounded by such specimens of manhood,’ she murmured innocently in the Graeco-Roman rooms.
Auguste, caught in front of a Young Satyr and quoit throwers, with Pan, Hermes and Cupid flanking him, turned red and Bella laughed.
‘So modest, dear Auguste,’ she murmured.
‘I am not modest, madame,’ he cried, wondering where his suavity had gone.
‘In that case, dear Auguste, I will most certainly visit you again.’
He could not tell her no, his body told him to tell her yes, his common sense told him to run as fast as a nymph from a satyr. He played for time. ‘Madame, until this case is over I must remain available for Inspector Rose to call me at any time. My personal feelings must not enter into it. I cannot allow . . .’ He tried to look stricken, and it was not difficult. Part of him was. The scent from her hair wafted around him. ‘I cannot see, madame, why you so desire my company,’ he said plaintively and unusually modestly.
‘Can’t you, Auguste? We all have our secrets, do we not?’ She smiled deliciously, and placed a kiss on her finger.
Her husband was meanwhile preoccupied with weighing up the consequences of Rose’s announcement. If this woman was charged with the murder, the disruption in British political affairs might be almost as severe as if the attempt were carried out, if he played his cards carefully. The old Queen was indomitable, but a threat to the succession could keep the South African War warm, if not boiling, sufficiently to keep her attention from other parts of the new continent. France could move slowly forward unimpeded. He cleared his throat as he addressed his British counterpart.
‘My dear Sir John, shall we proceed to the Room of Gold Ornaments and Gems? Would it not be amusing if the museum had acquired a certain stool?’
Sir John glared. He might look an old fogey, but looks could hide a shrewd mind. The fellow was fishing. At least – he suddenly had a doubt – he hoped he was. There’d be the devil’s own rumpus if the museum bought that Stool, what with the murmurs over the Elgin marbles. No other collector would want it though. Except – a disagreeable thought struck him – the French. If a Frenchman appeared waving the Stool and promising liberty, fraternity and all that rubbish, it could be a damned difficult situation out on the Gold Coast. Visions of King Prempeh, bursting out of his chains and declaring himself French for ever, danced before his eyes. He mopped his forehead before speaking. His words were carefully chosen.
‘You’re right, de Castillon. They could do with a few more chairs in here. Damned tiring week, walking round museums.’ What did the fellow want to celebrate Christmas in England for? Sir John thought irritably. Pity he couldn’t be clapped inside too, but then if they started looking too closely at diplomats’ lives, there was no telling where it might end up.
The twins were considering earnestly whether to add Rosanna’s hatpin to the museum’s collection of Anglo-Saxon antiquities, but on balance decided against such a move, on the grounds of their having more serious matters to discuss in their roles as private detectives. Their sister, oblivious that the fate of her hatpin was under discussion, also had more important matters to discuss.
‘Well, when shall I see you again, Danny?’
Danny looked confused. ‘Naturally I have to follow up the story – for Nancy’s sake.’
She stamped her foot. ‘You mean a story is more important than me?’ reducing the matter to essentials with womanly ease.
‘Yes – well, no, but I have to put the newspaper first. You must see that.’
‘No,’ said Rosanna pettishly. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t.’ She turned on her heel and flounced out of the manuscript room, where the first person she met was Frederick Dalmaine, whom she had so forthrightly rejected not fifteen minutes since. ‘Ah,’ she said, giving him her prettiest smile, ‘I am so glad to meet you, Major. Perhaps we shall be seated together at the theatre this evening? Would that not be delightful?’
Exotic and evocative words danced before his eyes. Truffles, cailles, chanterelles. What normally would have been a task absorbingly pleasant to anticipate was now a mocking distraction. For before tomorrow night’s dinner must come tomorrow morning. How could he give due attention to a menu when the future of the world might have changed before its recipients coul
d enjoy its delights? The unpleasant thought of Fancelli at large blotted out even the prospect of pheasant with brandy, truffles and foie gras. Perhaps a little rich . . . A delicate timbale of chicken, flavoured with precious poivres de baie roses, the delicacy from his own dear Provençal village. Pink pepper, not red. He thought of Mrs Marshall’s coralline pepper almost with affection. Mrs Marshall was a strikingly handsome woman – perhaps she had Hungarian blood in her, so addicted she seemed to this unsubtle spice. Dear Mrs Marshall. How talented she really was, he was able to think in his less prejudiced moments, and what a good school she ran. It was not to be compared with the Didier School of Cuisine, of course, but nevertheless fulfilled a great need, if the craft of cookery, let alone the art, were not to die out at the unskilled hands of – he tried to push the traitorous thought away, but had not the integrity do so – such valiant souls as his friend Egbert’s wife, dear Edith.
Names, names, names, all conjuring up untold delights of taste and sensation, let alone the pleasures of preparing them. He looked disconsolately at the menu so far: velouté au curry et au paprika – that would please Mrs Marshall; oeufs Mireille, filets de sole with mussel sauce, saddle of veal with paprika and truffles – impatiently he scored the latter out. What was he thinking of? He had Mrs Marshall and paprika on the brain. He substituted salmis of pheasant and roast wild duck, and added poires Condé and a Nesselrode pudding, and flung down his pen. A large blot landed in the middle of the wild duck as a result. Surveying his handiwork, Auguste thought moodily that something failed to satisfy. Something here, besides the ink blob, was out of place. There was one dish that did not fit. Like this afternoon. His thoughts jumped. The same feeling – something had been said that was completely wrong, for which there was no answer. It was flour in a bavarois, a scum in a stockpot, garlic with asparagus. But what it was he could not grasp, and stared at the menu as if by solving the one, the other too might clarify as an egg white a consommé.
Thursday, 3 January, did not begin well. There was a thick fog for a start. Nevertheless it had to be faced, a conclusion shared by the Prince of Wales, by Auguste Didier, and Inspector Rose. The latter had been at Paddington since 4 a.m. So had Twitch. At Southampton the local police, not to be outdone, were swarming over the railway train that would later that morning be bearing Bobs to London on his triumphant way to Buckingham Palace.
Auguste, at Cranton’s, had different concerns, but they did not include luncheon or dinner. He had given his word to Egbert that, the menus at last being selected, their execution would be left to John. At the moment his concerns were irritated by the arrival of the Honourable Pembrey twins glowing with self-importance.
‘May we speak to you, Mr Didier?’ one of them (he had no idea which) asked him meekly.
Auguste eyed them suspiciously. The twins were identified in his mind with trouble and today was too important to add gratuitous problems to his load. Nevertheless, he reminded himself conscientiously, they were guests at Cranton’s.
‘We have something to tell you. At least, Evelyn has.’
‘It was you as much as me,’ retorted Evelyn.
‘It was your idea,’ Ethel pointed out, this leading to further heated discussion.
‘If this,’ cut in Auguste at last, his tone indicating he had obviously forgotten all about their being guests, ‘is another of your tricks—’
‘Oh no, it isn’t,’ they assured him in unison, horror in their voices at the mere idea.
‘It’s about the service lift,’ Ethel told him brightly. ‘You remember you said the Baroness or Fancelli hid the body in the lift while the rooms were being cleaned – well, they couldn’t have.’
‘Why not?’ asked Auguste, his heart sinking at the mere idea of the one sure explanation of the case being thrown into doubt.
‘Because we were using it that morning,’ said Evelyn. ‘We –’ sidelong look at her twin – ‘were going to play a trick on you, Mr Didier, and Ethel said—’
‘No, that was you,’ her twin informed her speedily.
‘What was this trick?’ Auguste demanded sternly.
‘Evelyn got in,’ said Ethel blithely, ignoring this, ‘but the lift went down too quickly and jammed at a funny angle, so I had to call Danny—’
‘Danny Nash? What was he doing inside the hotel on Christmas morning?’ demanded Auguste.
Evelyn glanced at Ethel. ‘He came in to see Rosanna,’ she said vaguely. ‘They were in the billiard room. Anyway, he managed to get the lift up again, and so Evelyn got out. Danny was rather cross, and he jammed the lift where we couldn’t reach it. That was about nine o’clock. Then very early next morning, he told us, he came in and unjammed it. It didn’t matter because it isn’t used during the day, so it didn’t upset your staff, Mr Didier.’
Only my theory of how the murder was committed, thought Auguste savagely. ‘Could the Baroness or Fancelli have freed it?’
‘They might have done,’ said Ethel helpfully, Sherlock Holmes to the fore, ‘but Danny found it jammed just as he had left it, so it doesn’t seem possible. The body couldn’t have been in the lift, even for a little while.’
Auguste glared at them, most unfairly, he was aware. But revenge should be his. ‘What was this trick?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
The twins looked at each other, and Evelyn nodded.
‘We were going to steal the boar’s head,’ Ethel told him, torn between terror and pride, ‘and replace it with Guardian’s bowler hat covered in icing. It did look nice,’ she added regretfully. ‘He had very nice eyes made out of your curtain rings.’
Auguste’s fists were clenched, his chest puffed out in indignation. ‘The art of cuisine is not a matter for jest.’
‘Oh no,’ said Evelyn fervently. ‘Anyway we didn’t do it, and we have made it up to you, Mr Didier, because we can tell you how it was done.’
‘My boar’s head?’ asked Auguste, his mind still sidetracked to this enormity.
‘No, the murder,’ Ethel told him impatiently. ‘If the lift wasn’t used, there must have been another way.’
‘And what was it?’ Auguste asked grimly, arms folded, judgment suspended.
‘Follow us, my man,’ Evelyn announced importantly, in her best Holmes voice, ‘for a reconstruction of the crime.’
Obediently Auguste followed the girls to the second floor, hoping that Marie-Paul and Alfred Bowman had decided not to spend the morning resting in their rooms.
‘Watson and I have reason to believe,’ Ethel began, gruffly waving aside Evelyn’s protestations over her role, ‘that the Baroness hid the body in one of the bathrooms opposite while the room was cleaned, staying in there herself with it. She avoided the risk of being seen by placing one of Miss Gonnet’s shawls round the body so that it looked as if her companion were helping her to the bathroom to run the bath.’
‘Dead bodies are heavy,’ said Auguste firmly.
‘It’s only a few feet,’ said Ethel crossly, ‘and the risk of being seen was very small.’
‘Have you asked the maids whether they saw the Baroness when they cleaned the room?’ asked Evelyn.
‘They did not,’ answered Auguste unwillingly, ‘but—’
‘There you are then,’ they chorused.
There was little point in an exposition on the difference between negative and positive evidence, so Auguste bowed to the inevitable. ‘Très bien,’ he damned with faint praise. ‘And what then?’
‘With the corpse dressed in Miss Gonnet’s clothes, she later walked her along the corridor, perhaps with Miss Gonnet’s help or this man Fancelli who worked here, into one of the empty bedrooms along there. Look!’ Ethel flung a door open. ‘The maids wouldn’t come in here, would they?’
‘Suppose Mrs Pomfret decided to inspect the empty rooms?’
‘It was Christmas morning,’ they pointed out, as if this entitled servants to neglect their duty.
‘And then?’ asked Auguste resignedly. The number of holes in this theory made it
resemble a colander of very little use, the largest being that on the morning in question these rooms were locked.
‘Late that night,’ Ethel informed him in hushed tones, ‘the Baroness crept along to regain the corpse with Fancelli. Or Miss Gonnet. They intended to put it in the lift to take it downstairs, but finding it jammed, they were forced to take it down the service stairs at the end of this corridor. Come.’
With Auguste trailing behind, they ran down several flights of stairs, into the basement area, along the corridor and through the kitchens to John’s great surprise and annoyance, clearly seeing this as an underhand way of checking up on him. Unable to explain, Auguste shrugged expressively, but John’s subsequent blow on the meat for luncheon with the steak mallet did not suggest he was convinced.
‘Here for some reason,’ Evelyn told him gravely as they emerged into the basement corridors again, with the collection and delivery and boiler rooms in front, ‘something went wrong. Perhaps it was Danny.’
‘Danny?’ repeated Auguste, bewildered.
‘Yes,’ said Ethel impatiently at his dull wits.
‘He was sleeping down here in the cellars so he could see Rosanna and keep an eye on Nancy,’ Evelyn added. ‘Anyway, something frightened them, and they could not dispose of the body. So they think of the chest.’ She led the way back into the kitchens, to John’s fury. Ostentatiously not looking at the work in progress, Auguste followed them up the kitchen service stairs, emerging into the entrance hall.
‘Here,’ cried Ethel triumphantly, running across the hallway and into the drawing room. ‘Here is this nice chest right by a side window. If they leave the body there for a day, the following night they can arrange to get it out of the window and smuggle it away. Can’t you just picture the scene? Come, Evelyn, in with the body.’ She flung the lid open, fortunately still with her eyes on Auguste and her twin. ‘See?’
Auguste did see, and acting like lightning pushed between her and the chest, slamming it shut before Evelyn too could see. His face was very pale. ‘Mesdemoiselles,’ he said pleasantly, keeping his voice steady. ‘Bravo. A most keenly observed theory. Kindly request the constable at the door to come here before you go. I – um – must pass on your suggestions quickly and confidentially. Inspector Rose must hear of this at the very first opportunity.’