Murder in Pug's Parlour Page 2

  He cleared his throat, self-consciously: ‘I am sorry to inform you, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr Greeves has – um – passed away.’

  A shriek from May Fawcett; a faint cry from Mrs Hankey.

  ‘And I’m not satisfied. Not satisfied at all, as I shall be telling His Grace,’ he emphasised, glaring at them. He couldn’t wait to tell His Grace, it was his big moment. ‘I have had to ask for police presence. Mr Greeves’ rooms are under guard.’

  Such was the eloquence of his declaration that the upper servants imagined the whole of the Household Cavalry galloping up the drive, but reality returned with the news that the police guard was only Ned Perkins, the butcher’s youngest.

  ‘Good afternoon, maître.’

  The Duchess of Stockbery was always punctilious in her greeting. Sitting in her blue chiffon teagown, she created an air of fragility, surrounded by portraits of the Duke’s ancestors in the library. It was an air belied by her purposeful chin. The Duke contented himself with a mere nod and a ‘’Nin, Did’yer’. However enamoured he was of their cuisine, the Duke regarded all Frenchmen as vaguely effeminate and their language as an eccentricity in which they illogically persisted.

  ‘Been killing off my staff, eh, Did’yer?’ remarked the Duke, all fifteen stone ensconced in his brown leather-covered chair, surprisingly intelligent eyes glaring out from under the bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Had another shot at the old Quoorma, eh, Did’yer, eh?’

  Auguste stiffened. His Grace was His Grace, but even he need not have reminded him quite so outspokenly of that early disaster. True, he had not quite mastered the use of spices recommended in Colonel Kenny-Robert’s Culinary Jottings, but that had been in his early days in England. Now his mulligatawny, his curries were eagerly devoured by His Grace’s guests. Why, even Colonel Milligan, on leave from the Indian Army, after the winning of the VC and much in demand by ambitious hostesses as a result, had demanded Didier’s curry as a condition of his attendance.

  ‘George,’ protested the Duchess, laying her hand lightly on the ducal arm and smiling with practised charm at Auguste. Fifteen years younger than her husband, it was hard to believe she was the mother of a twenty-year-old daughter and twenty-two-year-old son, and Her Grace would have been the first to agree with you. Only she and May Fawcett knew the labour that went into achieving this effect.

  The Duke grunted. ‘Bad business though. Place gone haywire. The sergeant fellow tells me Greeves was poisoned but they don’t know. Even had the impudence to tell me he’s leaving a guard. Must have been an accident. Things get left around. It happens.’

  Auguste stiffened but His Grace, not attuned to his inferiors’ feelings, swept on. ‘Easy enough. Organisation gone to pot. Saw a gal skipping around at five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’ The Duke shook his head in despair. His dislike of seeing the female members of his staff after noon was legendary. ‘What with her not in her black when she should be, and Freds in dress livery before luncheon, I don’t know what the staff’s coming to. Discipline gone to pot. See to it, Did’yer, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Grace,’ murmured Auguste.

  It was easier to agree than to point out it was now Mr Hobbs and not the chef whose duty it would be to discipline the lower servants. The Duke had this simple idea that an order given to one servant could be passed on to all, that behind that green baize door was one cohesive unit striving only to do its best for the Dukes of Stockbery. So, Auguste supposed, in the last resort it would. But before that last resort, what petty bickerings, what jealousies, what rivalries, what jealously guarded prerogatives and dividing lines. So foolish – except for his own grievance of course. How glad he was that as chef with his two assistants, two kitchen-maids, one vegetable maid, two scullery maids and the pantryboy, he formed a small separate sovereignty within the vast empire below stairs. Or was it just Greeves, with his sly insinuations, his sinister, brooding eye on them that had resulted in that perpetual sense of unease in which they had lived for so long?

  ‘Monsieur Didier’ – the Duchess’s accent was impeccable – she had had a French lover for the whole of one London season – ‘we realise what a blow this has been and how distressed you must be at this unfortunate accident, but, Monsieur Didier, can you still manage? It is quite impossible to stop our guests arriving on Friday.’

  ‘Damned cheek,’ grunted the Duke. ‘Whippersnapper of a policeman suggested we call the whole thing off till he’d finished what he called his investigations. I said I knew old Hobbs could cope perfectly well, and he had the impudence to tell me that wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Sent him off with a flea in his ear.’

  ‘Oui, madame,’ said Auguste, disregarding this intervention and concentrating on the important matters, his eyes brightening as usual at discussions of les menus, le banquet, which had occasioned this unusual afternoon summons. The morning was his regular time for admission to the Presence. Another fifteen house guests would be arriving on Friday to Monday, not to mention the guests invited for the day only for the shoot and the dance. It was only a small dance, of course, nothing like the ball that would be thrown at the end of the three-week shooting party. The guests on Friday would be arriving by London, Chatham and South-East railway. Only one train was involved for it had a special connection to Hollingham Halt, its voyagers known to the more frivolous of the railway staff as the Tower Trippers.

  For the Friday evening to precede an informal dance, a dinner à la Russe had been planned. For the Saturday a buffet to excel all buffets. The marble-shelved larders were groaning under the weight of stores awaiting conversion into works of art; the iceboxes would soon be full of the sorbets to quench hot passions aroused by the dancing; the game larders were being stripped of their contents in preparation for the forthcoming culinary delights.

  As Their Graces pored with delighted exclamations and the occasional frown over the menus, Auguste wondered how they had taken Greeves’ death. Had the dread word of murder been mentioned to them? And, if so, did they feel it pertained to them? Or, as it had taken place the other side of the green baize door, was it to them simply a parlour game of Guess the Murderer, in which they were concerned simply as bystanders? Not that murder was a stranger to this house of aristocracy. There had been murders a-plenty in the past – Ethel had relished telling him of them on the dark nights when they could wander unobserved in the huge park of Stockbery Towers. There had been the unfortunate case of the ninth Duke’s sister, a little strange from birth, who had stolen by night to the coachman’s dwelling with a long kitchen knife; the third Duke’s younger brother whom no one had set eyes on after the horrible murder of My Lord of Lyme, his rival at court in the affections of Good Queen Bess. And the—

  ‘What the devil’s this, Did’yer?’ An imperious finger was pointed at the carefully written list.

  ‘Crayfish, Your Grace, from the River Len.’

  The Duke snorted. ‘Why the devil can’t we have some of that écrevisses à la provençale? Something with a bit of taste.’

  ‘Faites simple, Your Grace. Do not complicate matters,’ said Auguste deferentially. ‘That’s what the maître, Monsieur Escoffier always said. In Kent, crayfish. In Provence, écrevisses.’

  ‘Why the devil I ever brought you over, I don’t know,’ grunted the Duke. ‘Haven’t had a decent sauce in weeks.’

  The battle of the menu won, Auguste made his way to the housekeeper’s room where a further pot of lemon tea was being consumed and tongues were loosed in earnest.

  ‘He said he wasn’t satisfied,’ said Hobbs, alarmed. ‘That means—’

  ‘Foul play,’ breathed Cricket.

  ‘Nonsense,’ wept Mrs Hankey. ‘How could it have been? It were an accident. Must have bin the Scotch woodcock. His little savoury he was so fond of. That boy, it’s all his fault. He prepared it.’

  Auguste shrugged. ‘How could one poison someone with anchovy fillets and cream, Mrs Hankey? Accidentally?’

  Much as he might privately c
onsider all savouries as a poison, an assault on the tastebuds at the end of a meal, it was difficult to imagine them as a vehicle for a virulent poison, especially at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy. As steward’s-room boy it was Jackson’s job to prepare the savoury and coffee in the pantry adjoining the Parlour, but it was difficult to see how poison could have been accidentally added to them.

  ‘You mark my words,’ said Cricket, though hardly anyone ever did. ‘They’ll find he was an arsenic eater – like that Mr Maybrick. Don’t you worry, Mrs Hankey. I agree. Must have been an accident. The doctor’s wrong. He took a bit too much.’

  These words failed to cheer her. ‘Arsenic eater,’ Mrs Hankey said scornfully. ‘What would he want to eat that for? Unless someone fed it to him of course.’ Her eyes travelled towards May Fawcett. ‘Some people were bent on making his life a misery – knowing he was pledged to me, that is.’

  May Fawcett was flushed but uncowed. She venomously spat out: ‘If that’s meant for me, Mrs Hankey, I would point out, if you please, that far from making Mr Greeves’ life a misery, I was the one spot of fun that Archibald had.’

  Auguste felt a shiver of apprehension. Every normal day, he and his fellows got on reasonably well, a few sour remarks, nothing special, a united band of upper servants. Then comes a death, a violent one, and suddenly all is changed. It was like a sauce; you add one final ingredient and the chemistry of all the rest is changed. Perhaps ruined . . .

  Edith Hankey was staring at May Fawcett as though unable to believe the impertinence of what she had just heard. Finally she burst out: ‘Archibald? You dare to call him Archibald. May Fawcett, how dare you! You never would while he was—’ Her voice wobbled.

  Miss Fawcett turned on her with a triumphant, cruel smile. ‘Oh yes, I would. Why not? He was in love with me, see.’

  Aha, thought Auguste. Now we shall hear the pheasants fly. The big bang and the birds fly out.

  ‘May,’ said Chambers sharply.

  Auguste’s eyes turned swiftly to him. What was this? May, not Miss Fawcett?

  Chambers’ intervention was ignored.

  Edith Hankey had risen to her feet, to tower in personality if not inches above the girl. ‘You forget your place, my girl. You taken leave of your senses? In love – with you? It was me with what he had an understanding.’

  The girl looked at her contemptuously, the crisis having temporarily swept away all thought for the morrow. ‘We was in love. We was going to get married, just as soon as we could get a house on the estate.’

  Mrs Hankey’s face was purple. ‘You? You wicked little liar. He was going to marry me, miss. Me.’

  ‘You!’ retorted Miss Fawcett with withering scorn. ‘What would he want you for? A man likes something pretty in his bed, not a ripe old bird like you.’ And with that she burst out crying, while Mrs Hankey was reduced to a quivering jelly of shock and rage.

  ‘Who cares how he died anyway?’ wept May. ‘He’s dead.’

  This realisation subdued Mrs Hankey’s impotent anger and she sat down suddenly, first her chin, then her lips beginning to quiver. Ethel Gubbins rose to her feet and rushed straight to her, casting a scathing look at May.

  ‘You shouldn’t say such things, Miss Fawcett. You really shouldn’t. We’re all upset . . .’ She put her arm round Mrs Hankey, an action unthinkable in other circumstances. ‘Now you come to my room and lie down, Mrs Hankey. I’ll look after you. A good cry will do you good.’

  Another scathing glance, this time delivered at the men, presumably for the uselessness of their sex, and Mrs Hankey was escorted out of her room along the corridor and up to Ethel’s on the first floor. Her footsteps could be heard clicking along the corridor in rhythm with the loud sobs that were now beginning to erupt. The remaining upper servants studiously avoided each other’s eyes. No Greeves. Now no Mrs Hankey. Authority was temporarily mislaid.

  Ernest Hobbs, the new power in the land as Greeves’ acting successor, was the first to break the silence. ‘Mr Didier, hrumph, the time.’

  Five pairs of eyes went to the small French clock on Mrs Hankey’s mantelpiece. Their owners took in its message simultaneously. Ten minutes to seven.

  Five people reached the door almost at the same time. May Fawcett, hastily scrubbing at her face with a handkerchief, was marginally first. ‘Her dress,’ she shrieked. ‘The bath. If that little hussy’s forgotten the water again—’ Her scurrying steps echoed down the corridor, hotly pursued by John Cricket in the pursuit of similar sartorial duties for His Grace.

  Auguste Didier was shaken. He had all but forgotten for the first time in his life.

  Dinner. It was time for le Dîner.

  Adjusting his apron and his cap, Auguste paused at the entrance to the vast kitchen to survey his kingdom. He was tall for a Frenchman, five foot nine inches, and slim for a cook. To his staff he was a god and to the females on it a double god, for his dark, warm French eyes breathed an exoticism into their humdrum lives. Today this god would have news of The Murder, for such the lower servants were now convinced it must be. They had not seen him yet, his assistants. They were moving without that air of total dedication, so necessary for perfection. He frowned. The familiar blast of warmth from the ranges and gas stoves hit him, acting as a stimulant, and pushing to the back of his mind all thoughts of murder. There they could marinate, he told himself, like the fish of the Mediterranean with their provençal herbs. His mind must be clear for the important matter – dinner. Only one hour left. The sense of power surged over him again. He was a maître. Had not Auguste Escoffier himself bestowed the accolade on him? And this was his kingdom.

  He sniffed. That was good. The smell of the roasts slowly browning in the range, the fowls on their spits.

  ‘Gladys, ma petite!’

  She looked up; instantly the stocky figure in its brown print dress seemed to gain new purpose as she scurried over to the Black Beauty gas stove where sauce-making was about to commence. Some chefs left the sauces completely to their underlings; even the vegetables. Ah, they knew nothing, those ones. The slightest overcooking and – tragedy could strike. Why, a chef he knew in Paris had shot himself when the brandade separated, whilst the Comte de Paris was waiting. The thought of sudden death brought Auguste’s mind back disagreeably to Greeves but, ignoring it, he set out on his ‘Cook’s Tour’, as the girls disrespectfully called it. What else could you expect from girls not yet eighteen? They did not appreciate that food was an art – for them it was something to fill their bellies, something they could not get enough of at home. But give them another year with him and then they would know. Yet probably before then they would be married. They were forbidden followers, but they always found a way. And who could blame them? There were few Rosa Lewises amongst them.

  ‘Ah, la soupe.’

  He lifted the ladle to his lips. Gladys’ eyes were fixed on him in trepidation. The potage à la Reine was light – perhaps a soupçon too much cream, but no matter. He smiled at her and her day was made. Annie was not so lucky. The consommé – he frowned. It would not be noticeable to any but Auguste, but he could detect a bouillon rushed, brought to the boil too quickly; it was without finesse. It was on his mind to tell her to throw it away, to shame her, but today – yes, today had been difficult, he conceded.

  ‘But next time, petite Annie, you . . .’

  The tour continued: roasts inspected, pies approved, a sauce for an entremet, the turbot kettle prepared, the carpes farcies ready, the brandy junket setting nicely in the marble-shelved larder. The final stir for the sorbet in the icebox. Her Grace was particularly fond of sorbets, and would often have them served between courses. To Auguste’s mind this was a mistake – une petite salade, perhaps, but a sorbet was too extreme. It frightened, not eased the stomach.

  Ten minutes to eight: the Freds, as they were known even to the upper servants by now, gathered in the kitchen to take the tureens of soup to the servery. Normally they stood impassively. Tonight was different. They were animated bey
ond their station.

  ‘Is it true, Mr Didier, that someone’s cut old Greeves’ gizzard?’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Hankey, Mr Didier? She ’asn’t really taken poison and fallen senseless over ’is body, ’as she?’ This romantic interpretation on the part of Gladys.

  ‘Non, Gladys, Mrs Hankey is—’

  ‘I ’eard, ’e did it ’imself—’

  ‘John, the soup,’ said Auguste firmly as the first tureen was handed over. Nothing, not even a death in the upper servants’ ranks, must disturb the ritual. The Freds returned, their mission this time the roasts. Now Auguste’s apprentice, William Tucker, came into his own. The cold roasts were already displayed along the long oak sideboards, where they would remain all evening, in the remote chance that a guest might still possess an unsatiated appetite after ten courses. The hot roasts were borne up to the servery to stand for their ritual fifteen minutes, steaming and tenderising inside their crusty shells, ready for the Duke’s easier carving.

  ‘Attention, Michael,’ came Auguste’s anxious shout as the newest of the Freds wavered uncertainly, laden salver in hand.

  Next the fish, always Auguste’s most troublesome course. He cast an agonised glance at the St Pierre as it whisked by him in the charge of John, the oldest of the Freds. That rhubarb sauce – was it perhaps a little too bitter for the English palate? The salmon, that could look after itself safely in the huge chafing dishes in the servery, but the soles, perhaps today they had lingered a trifle too long in their ravigote sauce?

  Finally the last of the courses had been dispatched, tired labourers began to contemplate their own suppers, and the whole mighty kingdom paused. Two hundred feet away nine spoons were lifted to busy chattering mouths, murder safely distanced by the green baize door. Tonight Ernest Hobbs, as acting steward, would be standing behind the Duke’s chair, Auguste reflected: what more could life hold? A man of sixty, bullied and harassed by the smiling villainous Greeves for ten years, was at last now in a position of power. How would it affect him? If he were Hobbs, he’d be openly jubilant. No more petty criticisms over the state of the plate, no endless callings to account after sudden descents to the cellar to check stock. No, Hobbs could have little cause to regret Greeves’ passing. Especially with that business of his daughter. Auguste had not then come to the Towers, but the gossip still persisted.