Murder with Majesty Read online

  Normally His Majesty insisted on despatching most of the palace cooks to cook for him, in addition to the usual retinue of household retainers, so Horace Pennyfather must be high in the popularity stakes for the king to trust his choice. He was glad. It meant that he, Thomas Entwhistle, could stand aside and let events take their course. As, thanks to his planning, they would.

  *

  Early on the morning of Saturday, 29th April, Arthur Montfoy was driving down from London for his wedding, to which he was greatly looking forward. Soon all his troubles would be over, the splendid Gertrude would be his, and in due course they might even be able to buy back Farthing Court. Thomas had intimated as much though for some reason he hadn’t seemed at all confident that Arthur would be able to do so. Anyway, Thomas had organised everything in corking fashion, Arthur would enjoy being back in the old house, and Gertrude would get her heart’s desire — an old-fashioned English wedding. It was all going to be perfectly idyllic.

  He had rather fancied driving down with Gertrude, but she had pointed out how unlucky it was for the bride to be too much in the bridegroom’s company, and he had reluctantly agreed to drive some woman Gertrude had been friendly with in Paris. He quickly brightened up when he arrived at the Carlton Hotel and found the Comtesse Eleonore de Balleville awaiting him in the Palm Court. She was a stunner with her black hair and dark eyes, even if she did look over thirty, and the bodice of her tightly fitting deep-blue walking dress suggested a figure to match. Arthur gathered that her husband was away a lot for diplomatic reasons, but whether the diplomacy was for his career or for marital convenience, was not clear. He took to her immediately. Gertrude was splendid but, on the whole, she didn’t spend much time telling him what a fantastic fellow he was as the countess seemed only too willing to do as they rattled through the Kentish countryside.

  “Artur — ” the countess’s husky voice imbued his name in French with a music it could have gained from no other direction — “Gertrude tells me that your village always celebrates May Day in your park. How generous. It shows the strong link between manor and village. The peasants must be devoted to you, and no wonder.”

  “Er, yes.” Arthur Montfoy had left all that sort of thing to Thomas, and had little notion what kind of preparations were in hand. He only hoped the countess’s beauty would offset any awkwardness in her all-too-literal translation of her native paysans if she were to use it within the hearing of Alf Spade, for example.

  “In France we present flowers, lilies of the valley, on the first of May.”

  “Very nice too, I’m sure,” Arthur commented heartily. It sounded a lot cheaper than Thomas’s methods.

  “Gertrude has given me a list of the rules when His Majesty is to be a fellow guest,” Eleonore continued happily. “My baggage was collected yesterday. Only four trunks and twenty smaller cases. Apart from hatboxes of course. I am afraid, being de passage, I could not make it more. If a misadventure occurs to anything I shall have to break one of the rules and appear in the same garment twice. Or,” she paused, and turned towards Arthur, “would it be better to appear en chemise or naked, do you think?”

  Arthur blushed bright red. This conjured up images that did not fit well with the need to keep an eye open as the Napier swung round corners. He almost wished there was a little more time between himself and marriage. He was quite certain as to which His Majesty would prefer — in private at any rate.

  Fortunately Eleonore did not require an answer, as she continued, “I have of course included deepest mourning, and so — ”

  “Mourning?” The steering wheel nearly shot out of his hand.

  “Gertrude tells me it is essential when the king is present, in case news reaches him that one of his relations has been assassinated.”

  Arthur wondered frantically whether his valet had thought to transfer deepest mourning along with his wedding clothes to the closets at Farthing Court. Then his solid English common sense came to his rescue. This was a wedding, not a wake.

  *

  The Montfoy family, cursed or not, was not solely represented by Arthur. His older sister Belinda, unmarried at thirty-two at her own choosing, was a keen student of hieroglyphs and Egyptology at London’s University College and intent on a career. She had reluctantly been prised away for the wedding, and was on her way by railway train, accompanied by her cousin ‘Young Gerald’. Gerald Montfoy had been thus indulgently deemed ever since his first misadventure at the age of five, when he purloined a fine silver nef from one of the statelier homes of England. As his passion for disgracing the family name had not changed, neither had his soubriquet. He had been despatched to South Africa at the earliest age possible, where he had distinguished himself by being the only English gentleman not to make a fortune, and had returned to London still penniless only three weeks ago. He was of an age with Arthur at twenty-eight, and blessed with more good looks, though far less money than Arthur had prior to his acquaintance with His Majesty. He had decided that henceforth the world should be his oyster and save when there was an ‘r’ in the month, London his playground. A round of shooting parties followed by Cannes would take care of the rest. This morning, unusually, he was sunk in gloom, despite Belinda’s best efforts to interest him in the Osireion at Abydos.

  “Nice woman, Gertrude,” he finally remarked savagely as they waited at Paddock Wood for the Cranbrook train. “Healthy type.”

  Belinda, who if forced was observant in more directions than the Rosetta Stone, glanced at him. “Indeed, Gerald, I believe you may count on several little Montfoys to toddle between you and the title.”

  He grinned reluctantly. “And any money that goes with it, dear Belinda, pray do not forget that.”

  “I don’t forget it. You may not have observed, Gerald, that I am earning my own living.”

  “No one could forget that.” Gerald Montfoy glanced at his cousin: the hair taken back in a bun that would be severe if it had succeeded in capturing all the stray ends of natural curls; the grey tweed costume; the grey felt hat. It was obviously going to be up to him to lighten the tone of the forthcoming proceedings on Gertrude’s behalf he decided, since Gertrude was to join the family. Lucky dog, Arthur. He had everything, title, estate, money, and now he was walking off with an American heiress. He didn’t need an heiress while Gerald did. He pondered what to do. After all, Arthur was a nincompoop and Gertrude was a very attractive woman.

  *

  Jeanne Planchet was on the same railway train as Thomas and Belinda, together with the great majority of the Pennyfather and Montfoy wedding guests, but she was travelling third class, along with the other servants. They would all climb up into the charabancs and not into the carriages waiting at Cranbrook for the last part of the journey. Jeanne was merely Mademoiselle Pennyfather’s maid. Already she was missing her native Paris, where she had applied for this position. She had heard of the English countryside, but so far was not impressed. Like London, it had no style. It was a higgledy-piggledy assortment of trees, houses, woods and streams. It had no grand concept like the French plains and rivers, or Paris’s splendid boulevards. It was not planned, it merely happened. America must be an entirely different matter, and she would have looked forward to going there. She had heard that in Washington and New York there was indeed style. There was only one barrier to this dream. Mademoiselle Pennyfather was to marry this English lord and actually wanted to live here. For ever, and ever, and ever. Her youth and beauty would be wasted in this barbarous wasteland. Jeanne glared at the bluebell woods and regretted leaving the bridges of Paris, clochards and all, despite its problems and despite the reason she had fled from it so short a time ago.

  *

  “My dear Mr Waites, how very fortuitous. Do please join me.”

  “Your Grace.” Richard Waites, rising diplomat of the Foreign Office with a particular speciality in European matters, bowed deeply to Louisa, Duchess of Wessex, for whom he had a cautious admiration — and sympathy. Of all roles, that of fading star in t
he firmament of the king’s amorous life was the least enviable, and with Mrs Keppel’s dominance, all stars shone less brightly even that of the ‘Dizzy Duchess’ as she was known. The dizziness had obviously been too much for the duke who had died while travelling across the Sahara wastes some years ago. How had she wangled her way onto the guest list? He supposed that even His Majesty could not exercise his usual vetoes over a wedding-party list.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr Waites. Are you a friend of dear Arthur’s?” Louisa unintentionally revealed her route to the list, as Richard followed her into the first-class carriage.

  “Of his wife to be.”

  “How very brave of him, don’t you think, to marry an American?”

  “A charming lady,” he replied shortly. Too shortly for the duchess, whose career was devoted to such nuances. She was amused. “Jealous, Mr Waites?”

  Was he? Richard found to his dismay that he was. He had seen much of Gertrude in the past few weeks, having been detailed by the Foreign Secretary (with an eye on monitoring relations with the President of the USA) to explain the workings of the ‘quaint’ English parliament. When she had told him of her forthcoming marriage, he had realised with some surprise she was exactly the bride he would have chosen for himself, fortune or not. That surprise had turned to jealousy surprised him even more.

  “His Majesty will have much on his mind,” Louisa observed innocently. “I must do what I can to make his stay a pleasant one.”

  “Will he?” The answer was meant to be off-putting.

  “This new friendship between the Tsar and the Kaiser must be most worrying for you.”

  He smiled. “With your present company and a wedding before me, nothing could worry me, Your Grace.” Damned woman, he was thinking. The last thing he wanted was the Dizzy Duchess snooping around. The Foreign Office had had all its many channels working non-stop ever since the Kaiser had decided, with that Machiavellian Von Holstein’s help, to visit Tangier a month ago and assure the Sultan that not only was his independence guaranteed, but that Germany, for all the Kaiser’s protestations to His Majesty last June to the contrary, had a great interest in Morocco’s future and would protect it. France, with its own labyrinthine plans, was consequently on the point of war with Germany and that might split His Majesty’s entente cordiale with France wide open, since Britain had no intention of joining in, if conflict broke out. Yet with the Tsar under German influence, would that leave Britain isolated? The Tsar needed to be gently wooed back to where his best interests lay, with France and Britain, but above all the alliance with France must be maintained.

  “If there is anything I can do to help … ” Louisa’s still splendid blue eyes stared earnestly into his.

  In Richard’s view, King Edward VII was quite astute enough as a politician to manage very nicely without the help of anyone — including, unfortunately, his Foreign Office. (Provided, Richard conceded, he did not get sidetracked.)

  “You are most kind, Your Grace.” Deftly Richard turned the talk to safe ground, such as who was, and even more excitingly, who was not on the guest list. The Dizzy Duchess, for once, was disappointed.

  *

  Harvey Bolland was finding the company of Bluebell Pennyfather, Gertrude’s younger sister, distinctly trying. Back in the States, he had cultivated the kid’s friendship as a sure way to Gertrude’s heart, since the sisters appeared to be devoted to each other. It had failed as a policy, and he was burdened with the consequences. His dogged pursuit of Gertrude from Colorado to New York, then to Paris and now London, had resulted only in an invitation to her wedding to someone else. He’d heard a lot about the general uselessness of the English aristocracy but Lord Montfoy beat everything. The fellow wasn’t even good-looking. Harvey complacently thought of his own strapping, tall figure. Why, Buffalo Bill had even asked him to take part in his show. This Arthur wouldn’t last ten minutes in Denver. And he, Harvey, was just as rich as Arthur; there was still money in the ground in Colorado. Horace had approved of him, too, until he had the wool pulled over his eyes by this old England stuff.

  “I’m going to be the only bridesmaid.”

  Harvey looked at the gawky twelve-year-old, in many respects a younger version of Gertrude, but not so far in looks and figure. She was much shorter, much sharper featured, much more sturdy, and her round, heavy spectacles did not help. Sure, the sisters shared a disconcerting stare and that he didn’t care for.

  “That’s if there is a wedding,” Bluebell added matter-of-factly.

  He was startled, and then cautiously interested. “Why shouldn’t there be, Bluebell?”

  “She might change her mind.”

  “I doubt it.” Harvey relapsed into depression. For a moment he thought Bluebell had a plan.

  “I don’t like Arthur and I don’t want her to live in England.”

  “Gertrude does, unfortunately.”

  Bluebell ignored this. “Nor does Father.”

  Here Harvey disagreed, pointing out savagely, “He’s delighted about it. He’s aiming to put ‘Purveyors to His Majesty’ on his blessed Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub.”

  *

  Gertrude and Horace were passengers in a Rolls-Royce — new to the market, Horace had been told, but thought to have promise. He’d bought it, and now in the hands of their chauffeur it was taking them to Farthing Court. So far they had made seven stops in Horace’s anxiety to close the top lest it rain, and Gertrude’s determination to see as much as possible of the countryside she was shortly to make her own.

  “It should be here, sir. Somewhere.” The chauffeur had stopped near the village of Sissinghurst and was peering at a map on which roads were a matter of far less importance than railways and rivers. After asking directions of a postman, who seemed to have heard only vaguely of Frimhurst, the chauffeur turned one comer, then another, and found what must surely be the road to Frimhurst. Farmers in smocks industriously tilled the fields, a shepherd raised a horn to his lips and blew loudly three times. “Like Little Boy Blue calling his sheep,” murmured Gertrude entranced. Then the shepherd proceeded to let the flock of sheep out in front of the motor car, which provided an advance guard to the village.

  “Oh, it’s enchanting,” Gertrude said, and even Horace was impressed.

  A milkmaid in bonnet and pale-blue dress and white stockings, a stool under one arm and bucket on the other, swept low in a curtsey. A chimney sweep trudging along the road, a small boy at his side covered in black from top to bottom (Bert had paid extra out of the budget), gave them a merry grin.

  “It’s lucky to see a chimney sweep on the way to one’s wedding, so Arthur tells me,” Gertrude breathed in ecstasy.

  The thatched roofs including that of the old pub looked cosy and inviting. Children bowled hoops and bobbed respectfully, one shyly presented a bouquet of wild primroses, old ladies at doorways, clad in black, energetically spun wool and lace. Voices, raised in merry song, issued from the public house, “Ha, ha, ha, you and me/Little brown jug, don’t I love thee … ’’ The church bells began to ring in competition, and a group of village girls, skipping round the well, promptly joined hands to run to the church.

  “I wish I could have heard what they were saying as they danced.” Gertrude sighed wistfully.

  It was just as well she could not. Mary Smith, the supposedly virginal May Queen elect, was giving a graphic account of her previous night’s rendezvous with Harry in what was called locally something rather more crude than Lovers’ Lane.

  “Father, look!” Gertrude cried, pointing to the green before the church, now adorned by a wooden contrivance for temporarily restraining malefactors and exposing them to the ridicule of their more virtuous friends and neighbours. “Aren’t they stocks?”

  As if on cue, a screaming figure was escorted by three burly men out of the White Dragon in front of them.

  “Dere you stay, George Higgins,” shouted the landlord. “Into the stocks wid you till you do cool off. What de Montfoys going to think, eh?”<
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  Gertrude watched as the man’s head was bowed in shame and his legs were duly fastened into his humiliating punishment.

  “Let him go, good people, for my sake,” she called, and grudgingly one of the men said “Half an hour, then, thanks to the kind lady, George.”

  Spring flowers seemed to bloom everywhere, merry smiles and respectful nods accompanied the slow passage of the motor car through the village towards the Farthing Court gates.

  An ancient crone tottered forth from her dwelling, tears in her eyes. “Blessed be de Montfoys, miss, and blessed be the bride that comes among us.”

  A rheumy-eyed old gentleman swept off his hat and brushed his eyes with his sleeve. “Dat I should see dis day, I thank’ee, Lord.”

  Gertrude Pennyfather glanced at her father, who was entranced by his daughter’s forthcoming domain. She smiled.

  Chapter Two

  It was highly inconvenient of oysters to plan their reproductive life to begin on the first of May, thus necessitating a closed season. His Majesty, as Auguste well knew, considered grilled oysters an indispensable forerunner to retiring for the night, and now that, owing to his age, ladies were not quite so indispensable, the dish had gained even more importance on the royal menu. Even lobsters chose this month to devote their best efforts to spawning, and were it not for the consignment of Norwegian lobsters (who saw their duty to the royal palate more clearly), fish would be but poorly represented. Even sole were out of season, ruling out his sôles au chablis Didier. Fortunately turbot was much more obliging. But would the consignment of turbot arrive on Monday from Hythe? What if — Auguste firmly dismissed his fears. If Ethelred Perkins declared a fishmonger reliable, that was good enough for him. In the few days he had been here, his confidence in this strange chef had mushroomed into a chanterelles à la crème. Ethelred was a dish fit for a king.

  He had tried to relax earlier that Saturday morning, as the wagon had trundled through Frimhurst village on its way to Cranbrook to pick up his supplies sent down from London. His time at Farthing Court had gone well, and his surroundings were pleasant — surprisingly so, he thought, as the surly innkeeper’s wife of earlier in the week came out to give him a sudden bob. A lacemaker outside her cottage, bobbins busy flying, called out a friendly greeting, and a child, clad in pinafore and boots, handed him a posy of wild flowers — including, to his delight, wild garlic. This seemed a different village from the one he had passed through on Tuesday.