Murder in Pug's Parlour Page 18

  Walter looked amused. ‘Not I, Your Grace. Glovers wouldn’t thank me for joining the party.’ The gamekeeper had made it clear his opinion of Walter as a shot. Of Francois also, but Francois lacked Walter’s determination.

  Laetitia glanced at Mr Hartham. What she saw in his face made her realise that all her powers of tact would be called upon. ‘George,’ she said firmly, ‘that seems to be an excellent idea. I’m sure Mr Hartham would agree that it is in everyone’s best interests that the police be left to carry out their enquiries without falling over us all day. After all, we must find out what happened to dear Honoria. She would want us to.’

  A hint of a wisp of lacy handkerchief to her eye to still the merest hint of a tear was all it needed to persuade a censorious Hartham that this indeed was the best idea. Particularly if a Duchess suggested it, it might be added.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the Duke, relieved. ‘Then we needn’t call off the Saturday shoot either. Get some air in our lungs, what? Picnic lunch. Glovers has been getting the birds ready for the last week up at Seven Acres.’ Thank God the big shoot wouldn’t be affected, the climax of the shooting season. Everything would be over by Saturday, the inquest, the funeral, and perhaps they could get back to normal. He was disagreeably aware, however, that things would not get back to normal until the triple murderer was safely behind bars.

  ‘Any more news of that footman?’ asked Petersfield casually.

  ‘Poor boy, they don’t expect him to live,’ said the Duchess. ‘He’s unconscious, and his aunt is with him.’

  ‘Aunt?’ cried Petersfield in amusement. ‘One doesn’t expect footmen to have aunts. I thought they just sprang up fully liveried from the earth.’

  Marshall’s lips tightened. They were all under strain and showed it in different ways. He found Petersfield’s way peculiarly unpleasant. He thought of the man’s arms round Jane and the packet of gambling chits, and a spasm of emotion shook him, and he had to turn away from the spectacle of this odious man nonchalantly topping up with the Duke’s brandy.

  Rose had other things to do than worry about the proprieties of a shoot; he was telegraphing to Scotland Yard. Thus it was that a very senior official indeed was speeding to Berkshire, to interview an irritable Lord Brasserby.

  ‘Thought we’d got all this over once. No news, have you?’

  ‘Nothing definite, Your Lordship.’

  Brasserby sighed. How could he have been such a fool? Fell right into the trap. And, moreover, he had been forced to face the unpleasant thought that one of his own guests was responsible. Any of the five hundred of them! Of course that had narrowed down to a mere twenty or so in practical terms of possible culprits and it had been the PM’s decision not to make a hullabaloo about the theft. It would have done more harm than good; he’d been right. No public scandal had ensued.

  ‘Is it possible that anyone from outside could have broken in?’

  Brasserby shook his head gloomily. ‘Not a chance. Been over it time and time again. Had to be inside. Couldn’t have known where it was. Only my secretary and a few of the guests could know where I keep my working papers.’

  ‘And now some of those guests are at Stockbery Towers – and so is a rough copy of one of the papers.’

  ‘Stockbery? Where Mrs Hartham’s just died? Sudden attack of food poisoning, so The Times said.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the senior official unblushingly.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Lord Arthur Petersfield, Prince Franz of Herzenberg, Walter Marshall, and a Frenchman, Francois Pradel, and the Marquise de Lavallee, and, of course, the Duke and Duchess.’

  ‘Well, any of them could have done it,’ said Brasserby doubtfully. ‘But I know the horse I’d back.’ He glared at his interrogator. ‘And the Prime Minister needs to know who as well. And Gladstone. Hurry up, my dear fellow. Get him.’

  Next morning, the gentlemen, duly deer-stalkered and Norfolked, set off for Seven Acre Field. It promised to be a good day.

  Inspector Rose appeared mid-morning, somewhat unexpectedly, in search of the Marquise. She had accompanied the shooting party.

  ‘I ll show you, if you like, Inspector, where they are,’ said Jane nobly. True, she could see Arthur – but all those dead birds again – ugh! ‘Do you think you can find out who did it quickly, Inspector?’ Jane asked hopefully, on the walk up to the field. ‘It must have been one of the servants, mustn’t it?’

  Rose looked at her morosely. ‘Too early to say yet, miss,’ he intoned.

  ‘But that boy, we none of us knew him. It’s ridiculous, keeping us all cooped up like pigeons.’

  ‘Why should one of the servants want to kill Mrs Hartham?’ Rose countered. ‘Tell me that, miss – er – Your Ladyship.’ Seemed a silly word to apply to this slip of a girl, but there it was.

  ‘I think,’ said Lady Jane stoutly, ‘it just got in the sandwiches by accident – they must have been meant for one of the other servants, and Mrs Hartham got the wrong plate. Something like that.’ She paused. She was a fair-minded girl, and she had no quarrel with the cook. Indeed, she rather liked him. Auguste used to cook her special dishes when she was still officially in the schoolroom and, despite Nanny’s disapproval, had had lots of talks with her about France. He made her laugh. He had attractive twinkling eyes, too, for a servant.

  ‘You must find out soon,’ she went on firmly. ‘It’s dreadful for Mother and Father not knowing.’

  Rose glanced at her and wondered whether she had any idea of what her father and mother were really like. Perhaps she, too, would be like her mother one day if she married that Petersfield man. Shifty-looking. Didn’t like the man’s eyes; they were cold. Reminded him of Art the Mobsman, up Pimlico way. Sooner have that tailor dummy Prince himself.

  The guns were in sight now, the air punctuated with the crack of shots as each new flush of birds volleyed into the air, loaders bent to their task. The spoils were already being strung out on a line erected between two beech trees; partridge, pheasant and the odd hare. Rose turned his eyes away. You didn’t see sights like this in London, not in his area anyway. Good honest beef was good enough for him.

  Lone amongst the women the Marquise had accompanied the men, to the Duke’s disgust. Women were all very well in the picnic tent, but they got in the way on a shoot and distracted the guns. Even Honoria, who even insisted on taking a shot herself from time to time, had been a mixed blessing by his side. He’d been captivated at first but, looking back, it was a – well – not done. Fast, that was what Laetitia had said about her. Fast. He took aim at an overlow pheasant and reddened when it fell to earth, hoping nobody had noticed, this transgressing against the code. Damned women, even the thought of them put him off.

  The Marquise was sitting on a canvas chair, a gracious figure in a dark grey walking suit, gloved hand on cane, large feather hat obscuring her face. She greeted Rose with a nod. She at least did not treat him as an annoying tradesman suddenly thrust in their midst.

  ‘Monsieur I’Inspecteur, you have come to shoot?’ Her eyes twinkled at him.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Against his will he found himself twinkling back. Perhaps it was true what they said about Frenchwomen. She must have been a stunner in her time. ‘No, I’ve come for a word with you.’

  ‘With me? But I am honoured. Flattered that I am one of your suspects. At my age I am expected to sit quietly and amuse myself with gossip, not commit murders. Now come. There is a shooting stick. You sit here and we will talk of your murders, hein?’

  It wasn’t what he would call comfortable, but it was a seat.

  ‘Funny occupation for a lady like you, ma’am, if I may say so, coming all this way to watch men shooting birds.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her eyes wandered to where a young man was inexpertly firing at a pheasant. ‘Ah, Inspector, there are many unusual occupations for an old woman.’

  He followed her eyes. ‘Yes, ma’am, that’s who I’ve come to talk about.’

  She turned to him, for once sh
aken. ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Your secretary,’ he said. ‘How long has he been with you?’

  ‘For four years,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘And no trouble with him?’

  ‘You do not suspect my secretary, Inspector, of killing that man, or that foolish lady? Or of hitting a child over the head with a bronze lamp?’ Her voice was ice-cold.

  ‘I’m not concerned with that just at present. I want to know about a house party at Chivers in June.’

  ‘For Ascot. Yes, I was there and Francois was with me.’

  ‘Did your host discuss his work at all?’

  ‘Lord Brasserby – he is in the Admiralty, yes? And Francois’s father is an admiral. There is some connection . . .?’

  ‘Perhaps, ma’am.’ He looked at her with respect.

  ‘Tell me.’ It was a command.

  Rose hesitated. Somewhat unwillingly, he told her of the Rivers papers.

  ‘When were they stolen?’ Her voice was quiet.

  ‘So far as we can tell, during the Sunday night.’

  She relaxed. ‘Then I can tell you you may look elsewhere for your thief, Inspector,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘Francois was with me that night.’

  ‘Working, ma’am? Till what time?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Not working. Just with me. And all night.’ She watched him as the import of her words sank in and he blushed. ‘I shock you, Inspector?’ she said amusedly. ‘So be it. You will know by now that Greeves was a blackmailer; he attempted to blackmail me. I am sure he blackmailed others. Mrs Hartham was one of them. She told me. Asked me what to do. I advised her to do nothing. Ignore him. But she was a stupid creature.’ She sighed. ‘And now she is dead.’

  ‘Monsieur Auguste.’

  ‘Just Auguste,’ said Auguste tenderly. It was ridiculous to be sitting in a barn in a stolen hour of leisure with your arm round a girl as pretty as Ethel and for her to be murmuring ‘Monsieur Auguste’ for all the world as though they were in Pug’s Parlour.

  ‘Do you think they’ll ever find who did it?’ she said in a low voice, trying to ignore the arm which was stroking hers in a rather insistent way.

  Auguste sighed. It was an unpleasant subject and there were matters much more pleasant to think about at this moment. However, Ethel was clearly not in a mood to have her mind taken off murder so he did his best to answer her. He withdrew the arm to avoid temptation.

  ‘Oui, doubtless, ma chérie, this inspector will find who did it.’

  ‘But he thinks it’s me. I’m sure he does.’ Her voice rose in fright.

  ‘Now why would he think a little maid like you would kill a man, then a woman, then hit a strong boy over the head?’

  ‘Because he knows I did those sandwiches. Besides he found out about me and Greeves wanting to give me the sack.’ Her voice was a trifle reproachful.

  Auguste was shocked. ‘I told them nothing, and I am sure that Edward would not.’

  ‘He asked me about it, if it was true, and when I said no, it wasn’t, he told me Greeves had told someone about it. I think it was Chambers. He never did like me. I know it’s wicked to say so, but . . .’ The tears rolled down her face.

  The arm was quickly back in position, this time quickly followed by the other arm encircling her warm body.

  ‘There, my precious,’ he whispered. ‘You must not worry, I told you. I, your Auguste, will find out, very soon, and put an end to this. You will see.’

  Her eyes turned on him adoringly, so adoringly that it seemed only natural to move from this uncomfortable position to one of more comfort reclining on the straw. After that, it seemed quite natural to kiss away the tears from her eyes, and then to move his lips to hers, then for his fingers gently to unbutton her coat and the first few buttons of her blue and mauve print dress. As his fingers found her breast, she stopped crying and became quite still. Then: ‘Oh, Monsieur Auguste,’ she breathed and her arms crept round his neck. Gently he eased himself on top of her, her body soft beneath his and relaxed. She gave a little gasp as his hand encircled her breast and began to caress it.

  ‘Monsieur Auguste, I know you’ll take care of me always.’ Her trusting face looked up into his.

  Had Auguste not been half French, these words would undoubtedly have ensured the end of Ethel’s maidenhood. As it was, his native caution reasserted itself, difficult though it was. His body told him one thing, his head that this was Ethel, not just any village girl, and that ‘always’ for Ethel meant just that. Slowly, and with many endearing kisses, he commenced the rebuttoning of Ethel’s dress.

  That evening Auguste Didier himself once again took the tray to the nursery where Inspector Rose was waiting, pleasantly anticipating by now his evening meal.

  ‘Ah,’ he said cautiously on seeing Auguste again bringing it personally. He was an astute man. Auguste was not here for the sake of Inspector Rose’s stomach, though it was to be hoped that he had paid due attention to its needs.

  ‘Monsieur I’Inspecteur,’ announced Auguste, as he laid before the inspector poussins à piémontaise, navarin of lamb, with a bavarois to follow. (Mrs Rose would have died of apoplexy had she observed the amount of cream going into an authentic Didier bavarois and a charlotte aux poires, together with some of the Duke’s best grapes, and a half a bottle of Château Margaux to wash it down.) ‘I am not a barbarian. I do not normally interrupt gentlemen at their suppers. But when I return, monsieur, is it permitted that I talk with you?’

  Rose grunted. He liked the evenings to himself, to let the information of the day swill around in his mind, even as his stomach was digesting its supper, but he could hardly refuse. Anyway, he believed in letting people talk. A lot of villains would be alive today if they’d kept their mouths shut.

  One hour later Auguste Didier reappeared. Rose was in benign mood. He was not used to wine, but he had a strong head and, though it might dim, it never obscured his judgement. Not when it was necessary.

  ‘Mr Didier,’ he said cordially. ‘That was a right fine meal you gave me there. I wish Mrs Rose—’ But this rare confidence was bitten back in a sudden rush of loyalty to the tough liver and the boiled cabbage, and their creator.

  ‘Monsieur I’lnspecteur, the staff they are worried. They wish to find this murderer. May I tell them perhaps it is unlikely to be one of them now? We are all openly at odds now in Pug’s Parlour. Miss Fawcett does not speak to Mr Chambers; no one speaks to Miss Gubbins save myself; they only speak to me because I am the cook and they need me. Mr Chambers is nasty to everybody; Mr—’

  ‘Can’t do that, Mr Didier, not yet awhile.’

  ‘Then will you tell me, Inspector, so that I may think more about this crime, in what order the gentlemen returned to the bootroom? This way it is possible to guess – is it not? – who might have put the livery on. Mr Marshall only remembers when he came back and who came back after. He returned with Lady Jane and entered the bootroom as Lord Arthur Petersfield came out. After him came Francois Pradel and the Prince. But who was first – Petersfield or His Grace?’

  Rose studied him carefully. ‘Don’t see as it would matter telling you. His Grace was apparently first.’

  ‘So,’ said Auguste. ‘Monsieur Francois or the Prince are the most likely, they arrived later. Either could have hidden till everyone else was back—’

  ‘You can count Monsieur Pradel out,’ said Rose laconically. ‘Leastways for the moment.’

  ‘Because he was not being blackmailed?’ asked Auguste inquisitively.

  ‘Oh, I think he was all right,’ rejoined Rose blandly. ‘You just take my word for it, Mr Didier. Now, as to Mr Edward Jackson—’

  ‘How is he, Inspector?’

  ‘You’ll see right now.’ Rose got to his feet and led the way down to the housekeeper’s room. ‘He’s had a nasty blow on his head, and cuts, but as I said, the wig saved him. But he’s a clever lad, that one; he’ll go along with us. He knows there’s someone out to kill him, and that’s why he’s locked up here. We�
�re going to smuggle the lad out of here, back to his aunt in Maidstone for a while. Only myself, Sergeant Bladon, Constable Perkins and the two nurses know he’s come to, and I put the fear of God into them two about the consequences if anyone else knew. Now you know, too, Mr Didier. I’m taking a chance on you. Edward here thinks you’re okay.’

  A pale, bandaged, but still sharp-eyed Edward Jackson peered up at them. ‘You’ll maybe get more out of him than we can,’ remarked Rose. ‘Don’t think much of the police, do you, lad?’

  Edward gave a weak grin.

  ‘So you can’t tell us, lad, who hit you?’

  The boy looked anxious. ‘Didn’t see nothing, Mr Didier. Just remember coming out to look for food. Then nothing else.’

  ‘You saw no one?’

  ‘No one, Mr Didier.’

  Rose sighed. ‘Not helpful. Now lad, we know you was with Mrs Hartham at the ball. You took a message to someone. Now think hard, lad. What you heard the lady say, and what exactly the message was.’

  ‘Flower. I took a flower, and some sort of message about being cross.’

  ‘What? Try again, lad, come on, one last try.’

  The boy obediently tried again. ‘Wilde. She told him to think about Mr Wilde’s story.’

  ‘Don’t seem much like an invitation to the last dance to me,’ muttered Rose to himself. ‘Well, go on. What happened when you went back to her?’

  ‘She was standing there, laughing, waving her fan about,’ said Edward in adolescent disgust for the ways of womankind. ‘There was a group of men standing round her—’ He stopped short, and a look of fear came over his face.

  ‘Go on, go on, Edward,’ said Auguste firmly.

  ‘She was saying something about secrets, giving away people’s secrets.’

  ‘Secrets, eh?’ said Rose thoughtfully. ‘Talking of secrets,’ he went on conversationally, ‘I remembered where I seen you before, lad. Cleveland Street, wasn’t it? A year or two back. You were the one they called Jimmy. Very sought after, you were, very.’