Murder with Majesty

by Myers, Amy

  Today’s remains showed little rhyme or reason, no overall picture of content. Yet why? No dire misfortune had overtaken the bride and groom, who were safely married. Short of the rector of Frimhurst turning out to be an impostor not in holy orders, nothing could now go wrong. In the light of his relief that the banquet was over, and he had given of his best in preparing it, it did not even seem so unlikely to Auguste that he had been entirely mistaken about Thomas Entwhistle, despite the fact that English cheese seemed to have been a most popular item on the table. Chesnais, after all, was a careful man, and would hardly have been mistaken in his identification of Gregorin. In fact, the only fly in Auguste’s whole ointment was the unfortunate presence of large quantities of Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub at the banquet; huge jugs of evil red fluid still met his eye at every turn. Few people had been disposed to empty them during the banquet, he noticed, but there they obstinately remained for any persons seized of a desire to poison themselves during the afternoon.

  *

  The guests strolled in the grounds, returning at intervals for yet more champagne until the maypole ceremony should begin. Bored with the gathering, and unable to pick out any single heiresses by sight, Gerald went back to the house in search of Jeanne Planchet, with two objects in mind, the first that she might prove more generous than yesterday, for which he took along a bottle of Arthur’s champagne, the second the pursuit of the mystery that he increasingly sensed existed.

  First things first. “Here’s to Gertrude, and her poor sot of a husband.” Gerald opened the champagne with aplomb in his bedroom.

  “Men,” Jeanne announced darkly, “are merde.”

  “Which bedroom did you see Arthur coming out of yesterday?” he enquired somewhat later, caressing one breast.

  Jeanne giggled. She had nothing to lose now. “The third one along the ladies’ corridor. The Rose Room.”

  Gerald abruptly removed the hand and sat up scowling. “That’s his sister’s.” No mystery there, but he was convinced there was one somewhere.

  Jeanne thought of the money tucked inside the discarded stays. Never mind, the money — and America — were safe.

  By the time he left, Gerald was reconsidering his disappointment and putting two and two together with some dexterity. Belinda had already confided in him about the loss of the Montfoy necklace and highly upset she had been. She must have been upset for her to talk to him about it, he reflected dispassionately. Belinda usually played her cards close to her almost non-existent chest. Why, however, should Arthur take the necklace? The minute it appeared round Gertrude’s neck, Belinda would see it and yank it off. There was only one way to find out, he decided. He would tackle the lady herself.

  He sought Belinda out in the garden, admired her deplorable mauve gown, detached her from the deplorably boring gentleman (Thomas Entwhistle) to whom she was talking, and drew her aside. “Your necklace, it’s headed for Gertrude.”

  “What do you mean, Gerald? I can’t believe Gertrude would steal from my room. Why on earth should she?”

  “Not Gertrude. Her newly acquired husband. Your dear brother Arthur.”

  She stared at him. “Why should he? He must have known I’d find out.”

  “Why else was he in your room yesterday afternoon? He was seen leaving it.”

  Belinda looked sharply at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can prove it.”

  Belinda began to believe him very quickly, for a few yards away by the maypole she saw Arthur chatting to that terrible woman, Bessie Wickman. Democracy could go too far. Rage boiled up inside her as Belinda thought it through. “Arthur must have found out it wasn’t still in our safe at the Dower House.”

  Gerald stared. “The Dower House?” From the immediate reddening of Belinda’s face, he suspected he’d played an ace without knowing it, and thus come close to the mystery. He grinned. “Come on, Belinda. Fess up.”

  Appreciating she had gone too far to draw back, and in the circumstances seeing no reason for further loyalty, Belinda announced furiously, “He’s nearly bankrupt, Gerald. Or was. If it hadn’t been for Thomas buying Farthing Court … ”

  Her voice went on but Gerald hardly took it in, for once completely dazed by the turn the situation had taken. He vaguely heard himself promising to mention this to no one, or at least until the king had left on the morrow. Justifiable anger (as the heir to the title and estate) seized him. “Why wasn’t I told about this?” he hissed.

  “You were in South Africa, getting rich,” Belinda pointed out, amused now the truth was out.

  Red-faced with fury, Gerald crashed his glass down on the serving table. “What happened to the money?”

  Belinda shrugged. “A friendship with His Majesty can be costly, and Arthur is not the best manager in the world. Anyway, it’s gone.” She began to regret, from the odd look on Gerald’s face, that she had told him. “You had to know some time. It doesn’t affect the title, of course. That still comes to you. And now Arthur’s married, you wouldn’t have got the money anyway.”

  “Yes, there’s any future little Montfoys to consider, of course.” He thought of Gertrude’s generously built figure, and railed against fate. Then a happy idea occurred to him, as it usually did when his own survival was at stake. If dear little Gertrude and her father were unaware of the situation, then there might be more to gain in keeping the marriage happy than in his wrecking it even before its consummation. And thereafter Arthur could be milked by a careful cowherd like Gerald. Gerald disliked the word blackmail, but even he was forced to admit this was what he had in mind.

  *

  Like the sun, Auguste emerged, correctly attired, to join the distinguished gathering for the maypole dancing. For an hour or two his task was over, and he convinced himself that among three hundred or so people, Gregorin, even if a dagger were secreted about his person, would find his target a hard one. His Majesty, seated between bride and groom, looked distinctly trapped, and it was clear that maypole and morris dancing were beginning to have the same effect on him as cricket. At least this dance looked rather exciting, Auguste thought. For some reason all the dancers wore antlers on their heads, no doubt on loan from the folly. The leader’s head had entirely disappeared, covered by the deer’s antlered head that had hung over the folly mantelpiece. It was removed to reveal Bert Wickman’s face.

  “The Frimhurst Horn Dance,” he announced self-consciously, as the fiddler, fortunately without a deer’s head, began to play. It was a very strange dance, and it took some time before Auguste realised the dancers must be imitating the escape of the deer from the hunt, and that Bert Wickman was not another deer, but Herne the Hunter.

  The Sellingers’ dances which followed and the plaiting of the maypole garlands by the schoolchildren were somewhat more conventional, but Auguste was not surprised when His Majesty rose to retire to his apartments, for the sleep which had been postponed too long. That meant that Eleonore would be available for consultation. She was, but he made the mistake of reaching her at the same time as Louisa, bent on vengeance. They paused as they saw each other, both rapidly readjusting their planned opening words. Moreover, Eleonore had not been alone. Bluebell was interrogating her on French life, and from what he could hear, they were animatedly discussing the relative merits of French Savoie, English Wensleydale and American soft cheese.

  “Did you not like French food, Bluebell?” Auguste asked politely.

  “I like American better.”

  “I think you like everything American better, little girl.

  That nice young American man Harvey, for example.” Louisa, partly recovered from her indisposition, was intent on driving this child away. She could prove nothing, but she had strong suspicions as to whom she was indebted for her uncomfortable few hours. “You think he would have been a better husband for your sister than Arthur?”

  “No, I don’t. I just don’t like Englishmen.”

  “Why not?” Eleonore asked curiously.

  “They beli
eve in fairies.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Gertrude does. That’s why we’ve got this maypole.” Bluebell heaved a sigh. “I think if there are fairies, they aren’t pretty, but nasty. Don’t you?” She appealed to Auguste.

  “There are tales and legends all over Europe,” he replied diplomatically. “All sprung from a common root.”

  “There now,” beamed Louisa, conscious that this unattractive child might soon be her stepdaughter. “Not for little girls to get upset about.”

  Bluebell began to dislike England even more. “That’s what you think. Girls of my age have special powers, you know. That’s what Bessie says. They can tell when there’s trouble brewing for Frimhurst and old Herne is on the march.”

  “Hélas,” cried the comtesse. “And how can this be prevented?”

  “There’s only one way, Bessie says.” Bluebell felt important, with two French people and a duchess hanging on her every word. “And that’s for old Herne to have the lord of the manor in his power. That’s why he must go to ask his permission when there’s a wedding under his roof.”

  “My dear child, I’m sure you’re right,” Louisa drawled.

  “I am,” Bluebell shouted, hating this woman. “That way, the village will be happy again.” (And Arthur will look so silly, Gertrude will be sorry she ever married him.) “At twelve o’clock, that’s when old Herne will walk. You’ll see. I’m going to tell everyone about the rhyme I heard about him. We’ll all see him walk.”

  *

  Gerald was seething all through his tenth glass of champagne. How he’d love to set the cat among the pigeons so far as the Pennyfathers were concerned, but it simply was not in his own interests. He wished it were. Arthur deserved everything that would come to him and he, Gerald, would personally like to deliver the first kick, preferably where the production of little Montfoys might be thereby considerably delayed for some time. He might have a preliminary word with Arthur; that would spoil his maypole dance. He promptly set out in search of his cousin, but failed to find him, only an apparently empty conservatory where, in fact, Horace Pennyfather was secretly drinking a whisky, escaping from Louisa, the world and Gerald Montfoy, since his basket chair was higher than Horace’s head. Then Gerald saw someone coming towards him and seized the opportunity to vent his anger on someone. “I suppose you know about this, Didier?”

  Auguste, on his way back to his room to change back like Cinderella into working clothes, did his best to pass by, but Gerald’s clutch on his lapel prevented him.

  Horace was about to stand up to make enquiry of his chef as to how the Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub supplies were doing when Gerald’s next words stopped him.

  “I suppose the king, you, everybody and his damned dog knew Farthing Court had been sold because the Montfoys are bankrupt — everybody except me and the poor old Pennyfathers.”

  “I am here as a chef,” Auguste replied firmly, removing the hand from his lapel and hurrying away. He was in enough trouble with His Majesty without getting embroiled in a secret that had nothing to do with him.

  Horace rose to his feet. “And I’m here as a poor old Pennyfather.” Grimly he marched towards Gerald. “Suppose you just tell me what all this is about.”

  Caught, Gerald reluctantly obliged in full. He’d have to rearrange his plans; the prognosis for a happy marriage between Gertrude and Arthur now seemed doomed.

  *

  “Gertrude!”

  Her father’s roar brought the bride running from the charming sight of little girls, big girls and grown men all decked out in flowers and garlanded hoops, still twisting and turning under the maypole for those with enough stamina to watch to the end. Her father had only roared twice in her life before, once when she made a face as she drank Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub, the second time when she announced she was to marry a gigolo in one of those new-fangled moving pictures. Each time she had been impressed by what he had to say.

  “Have I done something to offend you, Pa?” She followed him into the nearby folly where he slammed the door.

  “I’ll say you have, but it’s not your fault, honey. It’s mine. We’ve had the wool pulled over our eyes, and we’re going to do something about it.”

  Bluebell, scenting trouble and ever hopeful, crept up outside below an unfortunately closed window and listened with attention. To her great disappointment she could make little of the sounds she heard. There were odd murmurs and a scream from Gertrude, and something about the lord of the manor, or not the lord of the manor, and the importance of not telling His Majesty-

  Then they came nearer to the window, and she could hear a little more. Gertrude was wailing, “It’s my wedding night. What shall I do? Oh pa, let’s talk to him now.” “Listen to me, my girl. Tomorrow morning I can talk to my London lawyers, and then to His Majesty the King. Gertrude, you make sure you sleep alone, that clear?”

  “But how can I — ?” She thought for a moment. “Of course. Arthur must go to the maypole at midnight to seek Herne the Hunter’s permission. I’ll move rooms while he’s gone.”

  “You do that, my girl, and lock the door. The more people know, the more fools we look, and that isn’t going to happen. We’re going to keep this secret or it’ll be all over town, and what’s that going to do to sales?”

  Bluebell was enthralled. Whatever had happened? What would Richard and Harvey say if they knew Gertrude was sleeping alone? Married people usually slept in the same bed, didn’t they? Sometimes, anyway. A lot of fuss was made about it. So what had happened must have something to do with Lord Arthur and bed. Maybe the fairies had enchanted him, given him a monkey’s body perhaps, so Gertrude wouldn’t want to sleep with him. Maybe he had some dread disease? Maybe he was a frog in disguise? Even Bluebell realised this was unlikely. Whatever had happened, they probably wouldn’t tell her. She peered round the corner to see Gertrude emerge. Would she be in tears? She was not, but she was looking very, very angry.

  Bluebell considered the one obvious fact: whatever had happened was to do with Arthur, and therefore was all a help to her plans (and to Bessie’s). She decided to help out by telling everyone that tonight Gertrude was going to make sure that Arthur went to the maypole at midnight.

  After all, she knew what was going to happen, thanks to Bessie. It might prove the nail in the coffin so far as Arthur was concerned. And then, oh joy, Gertrude would come back to America.

  *

  His Majesty was first mollified, then charmed. It had all been a mistake. Eleonore hadn’t been so cruel as to suggest herself that Louisa had pinched the sandwiches she’d left as a signal, but that was undeniably what had happened. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Only, Bertie reminded himself, Louisa hadn’t been scorned. He had over the years given her some extremely expensive presents, and last night that had included the priceless one of himself. Tonight there would be another plate of sandwiches outside Eleonore’s door, and that was that. It was true he wasn’t sure he could manage it — the years marched on — but with some delightful help from Eleonore it might be possible. He’d retire early from the ball and get some rest in.

  At eleven o’clock, after an excellent dinner and an energetic ball, His Majesty retired and took a light supper in his apartments. The bride doggedly danced on, as did most of the guests. It was not polite (other than for the king) to leave before the bride. Gertrude retired at eleven thirty, having instructed Jeanne to remove her clothes and possessions from the marital chamber. Bluebell had already vanished. So, less forgivably, had the groom.

  *

  At twelve thirty a plate of cold quail sandwiches appeared outside the countess’s door when her déshabillé was complete and she was ready to receive her royal guest, and this time it remained there until heavy footsteps stopped to claim his prize. Auguste Didier peacefully slumbered in his bed, Eleonore’s charms completely forgotten after the glories of his achievements during the day.

  At seven o’clock his lordship’s valet found Arthur’s bed un
slept in, though this was hardly surprising since it was his wedding night. It was only by delicate discussion some time later in the servants’ hall with her new ladyship’s maid that it appeared that his lordship was not to be seen in the adjoining room either. It was agreed he could have been in the adjoining bathroom or dressing room. In any case, it was none of their business. It was therefore left to Alf Spade to come rushing wild-eyed into the manor entrance hall, still bedecked in its mocking white may, to raise the alarm.

  Auguste, swiftly summoned by Mr Tudor, ran across the gardens, as did Harvey, Richard, Thomas Entwhistle and a large party of other men who were able to respond quickly to the summons on their bedroom doors. It seemed odd to be running side by side with Thomas Entwhistle, and he seemed to agree for his face looked extremely grim.

  Alf led them to the maypole and pointed. There, firmly bound to the sturdy oak pole, was a figure identifiable, at first sight, only by his trousers and jacket for a deer’s head, topped by splendid antlers, masked his face.

  There was one other feature which sent a shiver of horror through Auguste. An arrow pierced the man’s chest.