Murder in Pug's Parlour Page 23

  ‘But—’

  ‘And all for the love of Edward Jackson,’ went on Auguste unheedingly.

  ‘A shooting accident. That’s what it will be put down as at the inquest. Looks better in the press,’ said Rose gloomily, sidetracked. He sighed. Promotion would continue to elude him.

  The following morning the ducal party attended church to give thanks in their various ways for the enjoyable shooting party of the last three weeks. That evening the guests would return to London, and Stockbery Towers to normal.

  ‘One moment, Inspector,’ Petersfield said, ‘before you go. A word in your ear.’ He smiled, not at all pleasantly. ‘I have not forgotten. Before long you will find yourself Sergeant Rose of the uniformed police again. A charge of murder is not a pleasant threat to make before witnesses. Such witnesses.’

  Egbert Rose faced Lord Arthur uncowed. ‘You’re right, sir. I apologise. I got the wrong man.’

  ‘You did indeed, Inspector. And you will not forget it, that I promise you.’

  ‘But I think you will, sir,’ said Rose slowly.

  Petersfield laughed. ‘You think in vain, Inspector.’

  ‘You were being blackmailed by Greeves, weren’t you, sir?’

  Petersfield stiffened. His eyes were watchful. ‘Take care, Inspector.’

  ‘I shall, sir, thank you. I don’t think the Duke would like it if he knew one of his guests was handing the plans of the British navy over to Germany, for all he’s an army man himself. I don’t doubt you were forced to do it, sir. Wouldn’t have wanted those stories about your baccarat debts to get to the Prince of Wales, eh? I don’t expect you’d be prosecuted over the plans, of course . . . You see, you could say you did England a good turn in the long run. What you didn’t know, Your Lordship, is that when Rivers started reworking the plans after the theft he realised he had made one fatal error in the first lot. If the Kaiser builds to that pattern, his ships will most probably sink.’

  Rose let out one hearty guffaw. Then his face grew grim again. ‘But word will get to the Prince of Wales all right. I shouldn’t drop your calling card in at Sandringham for a while, if I were you, sir.’

  Sunday luncheon was over. It was a warm day for the end of October, and several people were strolling in the grounds. The Kentish trees were at the height of their autumn glory. Lady Jane had – quite by chance – come across Walter Marshall in the gardens, and had suggested, offhandedly, he might be amused to investigate the maze.

  With some misgivings Mr Marshall agreed. It would indeed be an interesting experience. He had no doubt that Lady Jane knew its secrets intimately and had little more doubt that it would appeal to her sense of humour to abandon him there. However, reasoning that it was no more than he deserved, he meekly consented to be led to the middle of the maze. Not directly, Lady Jane was too cunning for that; but with many twists and turns on the way. There was a small fountain at the middle with a late rambling rose around it, and two stone lovers in an embrace which were it not art could well have been thought just a little risqué. Perhaps it was this that brought back to Walter’s mind his own plight for, instead of availing himself of the inviting place by Lady Jane’s side on the stone seat surrounding the centre, he placed himself on the wooden bench at the edge of the circle.

  Lady Jane frowned and carelessly twiddled a rose between her fingers. Walter watched intently. He would not be first to speak. Revenge should be hers.

  ‘Walter,’ she said suddenly. Her voice did not sound angry at all. ‘Arthur intends to speak to my father this evening. He could not last night because of – well, obviously not.’

  Walter said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. He folded his arms and endeavoured to look disinterested.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she said so artlessly that he had but one desire. He suppressed it.

  Lady Jane sighed to herself. Really, he was making this very difficult. ‘I do not think,’ she said, her eyes on the rose, ‘that I could marry anyone who looked so silly as he did with aspic of turkey all over his face.’

  Walter’s heart leapt up, and it was all he could do to keep from leaping after it.

  ‘You could,’ he said slowly, his eyes fixed on her, ‘you could always marry me instead.’

  In a trice, there were two figures on the wooden bench reclining in a position uncommonly reminiscent of their stone counterparts facing them.

  ‘You won’t be horribly schoolmarmy with me, will you, Walter?’ she whispered after a while.

  Walter, his heart at her feet, could only assure her he did not feel in the least schoolmarmy towards her.

  The maze was obviously a popular place for rendezvous that afternoon. Ethel too had a problem and, since on Sunday afternoons the upper servants were allowed the use of the gardens, she had earmarked the maze for the discussion of this problem with Auguste.

  ‘You see, Monsieur Auguste,’ she said confidingly, her hand in his, ‘it’s Constable Perkins.’

  ‘What is Constable Perkins, my dove?’ murmured Auguste, wondering whether they were deep enough into the maze to risk kissing her without fear of exposure to Mrs Hankey.

  ‘He wants me to go the village dance with him.’

  ‘Then go, my sweet.’

  This was not the answer Ethel sought. ‘But, Auguste,’ she said, raising her eyes to his, ‘I told him I was promised to you.’

  The little hand once so confiding now seemed to exert a monstrous grip. Auguste loosed it gently and gazed at her. No, she was still his sweet Ethel. He sighed. Here was a problem he must deal with delicately. He put his arm round her as they walked, Auguste noting the way they were going in case he needed to exit quickly.

  ‘My love,’ he said, tenderly kissing her. ‘I am not intended for such happiness.’

  He held his breath, wondering whether this was going too far. Apparently not, for Ethel’s face betrayed adoration besides bewilderment.

  ‘Since I came to the Towers, my little star, you have been the light of my life, the one bright spot in my dull work, the only thing that kept me from total despair. But I am beholden to the memory of another. Such happiness is not for me.’

  There was a little intake of breath. ‘You’re betrothed to another, Auguste?’

  ‘Not betrothed. Beholden. My Tatiana. In Paris.’

  Ethel held her breath. This was romance indeed, like what she read in her Girls’ Companion. ‘Who is she, Monsieur Auguste?’

  ‘Tatiana,’ he paused momentarily. ‘Tatiana is a Russian princess. You understand that is not as grand as one of Her Majesty’s daughters in this country, for Russia has many princesses, but she is a princess nevertheless. She lived in a large house in Paris, where I was apprenticed. She is beautiful, my Tatiana. We fell in love when she was still a little girl and I took her her meals in the schoolroom—’

  Behind the yew hedge one of the two eavesdroppers held her breath. Something seemed rather familiar about the recital, to Lady Jane.

  ‘Then she grew up and came to the schoolroom no more. She was destined to marry a noble prince. But one day she was out riding in the countryside and her horse bolted. But I, Auguste, was there to save her. I seized the reins of the galloping horse and helped her to the safety of my arms. We sat beneath an apple tree that she might recover her spirits and we talked, she and I. Oh, how we talked. We talked until the twilight came and, as the last bird sang his song of farewell to the day, we realised we were in love. Ah, it was love, the truest love. But we could not marry. No, she is a princess and I a mere cook. But we took a vow never to marry another while the other remained single. She is single still, my Tatiana.’

  Ethel drew a deep breath; tears were welling in her eyes. ‘That is beautiful, Monsieur Auguste, beautiful. I couldn’t come between you and Tatiana, could I?’

  ‘My love, it is a great sacrifice to me, you understand. But I think Constable Perkins must claim his partner for the dance.’

  ‘He is very good-looking,’ said Ethel doubtfully. ‘And I do like him
. But, oh, Monsieur Auguste—’ She gazed up at him again sorrowfully.

  ‘Away, child. Leave me to sorrow alone,’ said Auguste, giving her a gentle push of self-sacrificing renunciation – not all assumed.

  With a backward glance, she went. As soon as he was out of sight, he leant back against the hedge, weak with exhaustion.

  Walter Marshall’s head appeared over the top, followed by a giggly Lady Jane.

  Auguste regarded them reproachfully. ‘You were listening?’

  ‘You did it to me,’ Jane pointed out, giggling.

  ‘That was by mischance, My Lady,’ he said with dignity. ‘I would not have done so intentionally. I—’

  Walter had no such inhibitions. ‘Tell me, Auguste,’ he said with interest, ‘is there really a Tatiana?’

  Auguste looked him straight in the eye. ‘Sir, when a lady’s honour is at stake, we Frenchmen do not talk of such things.’

  And to the strains of Walter’s laughter he began to beat a retreat to the maze’s exit.

  ‘This is a really nice cup of tea, Mr Hobbs. Say what you like, Mr Greeves’ tea was not of the best.’ Mrs Hankey had given the seal of approval to Pug’s Parlour under its new management.

  ‘Sugar, Miss Fawcett?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Gubbins.’ May smiled at Ethel.

  ‘Mr Chambers?’

  ‘Not for me, Miss Gubbins. That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing this afternoon. And yours, Miss Fawcett,’ added Chambers hastily, remembering his duty. A smile of acknowledgement was his reward.

  ‘May I be of assistance with that cake, Mr Hobbs?’ In the absence of Edward Jackson, who was spending a few days with his aunt, Cricket was anxious to oblige. His offer was accepted. But Mrs Hankey intervened.

  ‘No need, Mr Cricket,’ she beamed, ‘I was just going to cut it.’ She smiled fondly at Mr Hobbs. ‘I know Ernest here has a sweet tooth.’ There could be worse fates for her old age than looking after Ernest Hobbs.

  Pug’s Parlour was back to normal.

  Rose stood at the entrance to the kitchens. Regret for sole au chablis and a hundred dishes of Auguste’s creation not yet tasted assailed him. Tomorrow it would be Mrs Rose’s mutton pie, as heavy as the Mrs Beeton she used to prop up the kitchen cupboard. Ah well, a man would get tired of this all the time, he told himself firmly as he surveyed the kitchen team preparing now for just a small family luncheon: roasted sweetbreads, partridge pie chasseur, almond gauffres, capon à la Perigueux, Salade à la Pompadour, salmagundy . . . He turned his head in momentary anguish.

  Auguste, cap on head, the devoted eye of the maître chef upon his sauces, was hard to distract, but when he saw Rose he came over.

  Rose regarded him. ‘Tell you what, Mr Didier, you teach me to be a cook, I’ll teach you to be a detective.’

  Auguste bristled with indignation. Was it not he who—?

  ‘I am a detective already, Inspector. Was it not I who solved how Greeves’ murder—?’ Then he saw Rose smile. Ah, these English with their straight faces . . . ‘Ah Inspector, you may mock me. But I tell you there is much the same in our two jobs. There is much patient reasoning, composing of menus – just as you build in your background; we assemble our ingredients as you your suspects and evidence. And then comes the art: the basic skills; the careful attention to detail; then the cooking; the seasoning; the knowing when and where to act; and finally—’ He paused.

  ‘Yes, Mr Didier?’ asked Rose.

  ‘There is the touch of a maître,’ said Auguste reverently. ‘Only a maître can achieve the supreme result.’

  ‘I’ve heard of a maître d’,’ said Rose. ‘Now I’ll know it means maître detective. First time I’ve ever thought crime could be solved in the kitchen. I must tell Mrs Rose.’ With this warming thought he was disposed to be generous and added, ‘That was a fine bit of work you did at the end, Didier.’ Then he remembered something. ‘How do you explain the pulling of the bell rope? That’s why we thought the murderer and the visitor to Mrs Hartham’s bedroom weren’t the same person.’

  Auguste said quietly, ‘Because I am a Frenchman, monsieur. And he was a German. And Frenchmen have feelings about Germans, born of a war fought twenty-one years ago. Madame la Marquise cried, “Sedan”. Memories of the massacre at Sedan go deep in France, monsieur. We remember.’

  ‘But the bell rope?’

  ‘He was a Prussian,’ said Auguste simply. ‘And Prussians are correct in their behaviour. Through centuries of obedience to orders, they do what is required automatically in a given situation. Mrs Hartham needed assistance. He pulled the bell rope. It seems ridiculous, perhaps, monsieur, but the Germans are not so. You see just a man whom the cartoonists love. We French see a German. Never underestimate the Germans, monsieur. This Kaiser, he is no joke, Inspector Rose. You will see, we will all see.’

  ‘Oh, not in England, Mr Didier, not in England.’