Murder with Majesty

by Myers, Amy

  “If you are a friend of Emma’s, you would be able to cook for His Majesty superbly,” Auguste assured her warmly.

  “Indeed no, monsieur. We live simply here unless Monsieur Entwhistle entertains, and it will be an honour to work with you, and with Mr Perkins too.”

  Thomas Entwhistle was, Auguste realised after a most delightful suprème de vollaille à la Bellevue, a most extraordinary gentleman. Only with difficulty did he recall that he was indeed extraordinary. He was Pyotr Gregorin.

  *

  Auguste awoke early next morning with a feeling of restlessness, perhaps of unfinished business. Was it the list for the marché, was it the arrangements for the ices, His Majesty’s bécassines? No, for once it was not food, he decided, it was something to do with this house. Then he remembered. At Farthing Court a murder had taken place, for which he was by no means sure that the right person had been arrested. And many of the other persons involved were now staying under this roof: Gertrude, Gerald and Belinda Montfoy, Louisa, Richard, Harvey, the Pennyfathers. Moreover, once again, His Majesty would be present, at least at the reception. Surely this was no coincidence? The guests were arriving today, as was His Majesty, but with Eleonore’s home in the Boulevard de Capucines so conveniently close, it seemed highly likely that they would be seeing little of His Majesty, even though he was staying so close in the Hotel Bristol. Was that part of Gregorin’s plan too?

  He decided he would go for a walk, although it was only six o’clock. Outside he would be exposed to any designs Gregorin might have on his life, but on the whole it was unlikely that he would be standing guard at the front door with a dagger quite so early in the morning. Dismissing the unwelcome notion of hired assassins, he hurriedly washed and shaved, dressed, and went downstairs where only a bleary-eyed kitchenmaid greeted him with some nervousness. He would take a cup of coffee in a cafe rather than here. Where should he go? Les Halles Centrales, of course. To the market where — No, he would walk to the river instead, and he retraced his first steps. Working Paris was beginning to wake up, the gutters ran with water, tradesmen already added colour to the grey streets with their wares, and in the cafes, full of smoke, ouvriers were taking their first marc of the day with coffee. The smell was too enticing and he went inside the next cafe to present itself for a coffee, before continuing to the river.

  The Seine was the lifeblood of Paris, fuller of traffic than the highways at this time of the morning. As he reached its familiar beauty, he wondered what he was doing there so far from Tatiana. Tatiana, not France, was home now.

  ‘I could not love thee dear so much/Loved I not honour more.’ Was that, in the poet’s words, why he was here? To protect Cousin Bertie? Or was it the magnet of the banquet that had drawn him here? On an impulse, he jumped on to one of the bateau omnibuses that served the Seine. He knew now where he wanted to go. He alighted at the Pont D’Alma and began to walk up to the Arc de Triomphe, and then on beyond that into familiar territory indeed. At this early hour the children, nannies and society ladies were not yet to be seen in the Parc Monceau. The houses of the great overlooking the pare were still silent, only the basement areas showing any signs of movement from the road outside. He stood in the pare and looked up at a house he knew very well. Was Gregorin behind those closed shutters, or the real Thomas Entwhistle — if there was such a person? Or was there no one save servants here? He stopped a milk cart, who had just finished its deliveries, and bought a cup of milk to drink, suddenly aware that the coffee — it must be the coffee — was making his heart beat uncomfortably loudly.

  “Who lives there?” he asked.

  “Russe,” was the milkman’s grunted answer. “Très gentil, très riche.” Guffaw of French laughter.

  The Tsar paid his Okhrana well, as Auguste knew. A great part of the Imperial wealth or, as Tatiana pointed out wryly, of the country’s wealth, was spent in maintaining it while the peasants starved. Fond though she was of Cousin Nikky, one day she was sure there would be more than just a few anarchists.

  “Is he at home?”

  “Now he is at home. I saw him only last evening.” A slightly suspicious look now, and the milkman rapidly took his departure.

  Auguste had learnt nothing that he did not know already.

  Then he saw a familiar figure emerging from the tradesman’s entrance to Gregorin’s house. It was Gertrude’s maid, Jeanne Planchet. How could she know Gregorin? He remembered the look of surprise she had given at Farthing Court at seeing the owner in the kitchen domain — had he been wrong in his conclusion that she was shocked at the breach of etiquette? Had she looked startled because she too had recognised Gregorin? Perhaps his visit here had been far from wasted.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Planchet. You are up early to attend mass, perhaps.”

  Guilt, anger, obstinacy, shock — all these were reflected in her expression as she realised the identity of the gentleman who had apparently sprung from nowhere. Jeanne Planchet was well equal to the occasion. She simply replied, “Oui, monsieur.”

  Begin with surprise, but not too great a surprise, like the perfect menu. “When you told me at Farthing Court, mademoiselle, that you had worked briefly in this area, where was that exactly?”

  “Rue du Faubourg St Honoré.” She began to walk speedily away from him, not into the Parc Monceau, but towards the Faubourg she had mentioned, where the many small shops would provide an excellent escape for her, he realised. He accompanied her.

  “And not at the house of Mr Pyotr Gregorin, which you have just visited?”

  Sudden wariness on her face. “Non.”

  “You were there to see him, were you not?”

  “Non. Ma soeur. She works in the kitchens.” A look of triumph.

  He tried another tack. A gentler one. “Mademoiselle, it is important for England and France that you tell me what you know.”

  “It is even more important for me that I say nothing.”

  “So you do know Gregorin, for otherwise you would not be scared.”

  “Why should I be scared?”

  “For your life. As I am.”

  Even this failed to move her. “He fears me.”

  “Then he most certainly has reason to kill you. And knowing him, he will.”

  At last he had succeeded, for she said almost pleadingly, “If I say nothing, he will do nothing. And soon I will be away in America with Miss Gertrude.”

  “She has decided to return home?” Auguste was surprised.

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Suppose she marries another Englishman?”

  Jeanne considered this. “It would not be proper for her to do so for at least a year and a half. So she must go to America first. And once there, monsieur, I shall be safe.”

  “Nowhere can one be safe from Gregorin, even in America. Assassins can work anywhere.”

  “I will be. You do not know him, monsieur, as I do. He has a tender, loving side, and I have seen it.”

  “Even though he dismissed you — from his employment, and, if I may guess, his bed?” He knew from Tatiana that Gregorin’s tastes in women were as diverse and curious as his tastes in food — and also that one meal when concluded, was swiftly forgotten.

  Jeanne marched straight ahead, and at last spoke. “I will tell you this, monsieur. I can do nothing for Monsieur le President de France, or for the King of England, but you can. This reception tomorrow night is the climax of long, long planning for the person by the name of Entwhistle.”

  “There is no real Thomas Entwhistle. And what is going to happen at this reception?”

  “I can’t tell you, except that his enemy is England.”

  *

  Never had the menu blackboard looked less attractive. A special kitchen leading off the main one had been prepared for him, Madame Lépine had informed him, a new gas pipe and stoves erected, new cupboards built, newly equipped with cutlery, pots and pans, mincing machines, even ice chests, not to mention his own staff seconded to carry out his every whim —
or rather in the case of this menu, whim-wham, the English dish selected for the traditional English entremet. Tudor had a room leading off this new kitchen which was to be his own domain.

  Auguste felt as if he were in the Grand Exposition of 1900, the kitchen of the future. It should be another paradise, but somehow it failed to be. The menu facing him on the blackboard seemed to be staring back at him menacingly, devoid of life, partly perhaps because his staff, instead of devotedly following their duties in silence or discussing in subdued tones the relative delights of soufflé de loup de mer as against soufflé de turbot were chattering about le roi britannique, Cousin Bertie, who had dined in full public view with the Comtesse Eleonore at Maxim’s last evening, having enjoyed an equally public appearance with her at one of the jollier Champs Elysees theatres. Auguste had never known the King display his illicit preferences so publicly; he must indeed be smitten with Eleonore.

  As soon as he had organised the preparation of the stock for the consommes, and prepared the final delivery lists for the Monday and Tuesday, encouraged the patissier chef in the early stages of the three great flancs which were to adorn the tables, he would go to see Richard Waites, he decided. The Sûreté did not believe him, Egbert did not believe him, but the Foreign Office would at least listen to him. There was no time to lose.

  “Monsieur Didier.” The pert voice of the vegetable maid addressed him. “Did you say spinach for the Potage Tranquille?”

  “Non!” Auguste’s shriek stopped the kitchen not in awe, but to giggle. One glance from his indignant eye quelled them. “Laitue, s’il vous plait.” He remembered his old adage: menu mal fait diner perdu. Tuesday’s dinner would not be lost. He would have to work hard to bring this menu to life; and he would work as though it were to be the last banquet he ever cooked. Perhaps, he remembered gloomily, it would be.

  *

  To Auguste’s relief, Richard Waites cordially agreed there was nothing he wanted more than a stroll along the boulevards and would be glad of company. Furthermore, he had been on the very point of suggesting it, should Mr Didier’s work permit.

  Auguste handed over to Ethelred the foundations of the flanc of Buckingham Palace, and the final checking of the menu to be sure the cardinal rule of no ingredient save truffles and champignons appearing twice on the same menu had not been broken. On being questioned as to the reason for his absence, Auguste had muttered a desire to seek out the finest snipe available at Les Halles, and prepared to do his duty by Cousin Bertie in a direction other than his stomach.

  There was no doubt that a stroll along the Champs Elysées on a Sunday afternoon was a cheering experience, the boulvardiers and street entertainers were in full post-luncheon jollity, the plane trees out in their green spring dress.

  “I wanted to talk to you, Mr Waites, about Pyotr Gregorin.”

  Richard’s face retained its usual impassive, somewhat amused, expression. “And I wanted to talk to you about the Comtesse Eleonore.”

  “Quoi?” Auguste quickly apologised for this impolite reaction, but it was the last thing he had expected.

  “I see you are surprised. However, the Comtesse Eleonore will be a guest at the reception on Tuesday night.”

  Auguste thought he understood. “But His Majesty is a politician of much discretion. In the presence of the President of the Republic, Monsieur Delcassé, the Prime Minister, and the American envoy, surely you can have no fears that he would allow his private feelings to influence his behaviour at state functions, particularly one so important as this?”

  “Hitherto,” Richard agreed, “His Majesty has maintained a perfect balance between his public and his private lives. On this occasion he may believe he has done the same, since only on Tuesday will his ‘official’ visit to Paris begin. Nevertheless, having appeared publicly with the Comtesse at Maxim’s and at the theatre, and by lunching with her today at her home, all Paris is talking of it, thus making it much more public than private.”

  “You are worried news will reach the queen?” Auguste was puzzled. “Paris has often talked before.”

  Richard sighed. “I don’t know quite what I’m worried about, but — ” he hesitated — “people other than myself are concerned. I sense that Paris is for once deeply disapproving, and that cannot be good.”

  “But she is married. Moreover her husband is a French diplomat.” Why did he feel bound to defend Eleonore? “Is that the reason, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. I can’t very well go straight to the Deuxième Bureau, but I shall make enquiries through the Embassy.”

  “And why did you wish to talk to me about her?” Richard laughed. “Just as you as a keen detective may have observed an attraction on my part to Gertrude, I observed, as a trained diplomat, a similar attraction when you were talking to Eleonore. I wanted to ask whether she had ever mentioned anything that would lead you to suspect her motives in her tendresse for the king had any political ingredients.”

  Had he been so caught up in his own emotion towards Eleonore that he had overlooked something? “My first answer is no, but I will think very carefully.”

  “And very quickly, if you will, please.”

  “As I hope you will about Pyotr Gregorin.” Auguste waited to see whether this name had any effect on Richard.

  “I heard about your theory that Thomas Entwhistle was a Russian spy in disguise.”

  “And it amused you, no doubt.”

  “I am never amused when the Okhrana is mentioned. Do you believe that poor Arthur was murdered by our host?”

  “I can’t see a motive for his killing Arthur, but I do believe he could have mistaken him for me.”

  “So you don’t believe in Bessie Wickman’s guilt?” “Only my sense of smell about the case tells me she is innocent.”

  “Coming from a maître chef, that is a powerful argument. I presume the smell comes from the deer’s head which deceived the murderer into thinking someone else, perhaps you, was beneath?”

  “No. I think — I hope — it stems from elsewhere.” Richard smiled. “From the direction perhaps of myself? Like several other people, I could cheerfully have killed Arthur, were I a murderer. However, fortunately I am not.”

  “I am more concerned at the moment with preventing trouble than solving it. If you accept the possibility that I am right about Entwhistle being Gregorin, then I beg you to think about the reception. Gregorin, not Eleonore, is our immediate problem.”

  Richard flipped a coin into a street acrobat’s collecting box.

  “Perhaps it’s both.”

  *

  Horace Pennyfather was extremely bored. For some mysterious reason Gertrude and Bluebell had managed to disappear to visit some museum on folklore, as soon as he expressed his own wish to sit in a nice café on the Champs Elysées and watch the world go by. Louisa equally mysteriously had then declared she knew where to find the best drink in the world, and would conduct him to it. This proved to be a long, undiluted, drink of culture. The Louvre was a mighty big place, and coming round in front of a struggling stone Laocoon for the fourth time in Louisa’s indefatigable search for some lady with no arms, he went on strike.

  “How about some tea and chocolates at Rumpelmayer’s?”

  Louisa, being British, knew all about strikes. She was also a shrewd judge of gentlemen, even Americans, and in any case it suited her plans. “Why don’t we go to some nice backstreet cafe where you can smoke and take a brandy?”

  Horace warmed to her. These English duchesses weren’t so bad when you got to know them.

  “How is dear Gertrude?” Louisa asked solicitously, eyeing the patisseries wistfully and contemplating the stern reaction of her corsets if she were to indulge in them.

  “Mighty shocked still, but my guess is it is the murder and not losing Arthur that’s the cause.”

  “She must be so relieved the murderess is found.” Horace frowned. “I don’t mind telling you, Arthur wasn’t the man I thought he was. A mistress is o
ne thing, but meeting her on your wedding night is some weird English custom. Gerald tried to tell me it was called droit de seigneur, but it wouldn’t happen in Ohio, I can tell you.”

  “I gather Mrs Wickman was blackmailing Arthur.”

  “I’m not surprised. Making out he was loaded with money, and as rich as Croesus, and all the while he was as broke as most of that stuff we saw in the museum.”

  “So many English aristocrats have been marrying American heiresses, I suppose poor Arthur thought he could get away with it.” Louisa remembered who it was she claimed invited her to Farthing Court in the first place, and decided some defence of poor Arthur was called for. “Consuelo Vanderbilt didn’t find out until her wedding day that Blenheim didn’t belong to her.”

  Belatedly, Horace thought that even with a listener as sympathetic as Louisa it might not be wise to build up too much resentment against the late Lord Montfoy. “I daresay he had his good points, of course. Too bad that woman took her revenge.”

  “You’re right, Horace. Will dear Gertrude be at your side on Tuesday?”

  “Not for dinner. Far too soon, she says. I guess I’ll be sitting with the US envoy and His Majesty.”

  “How interesting,” Louisa said warmly. “I do hope you are not embarrassed if you have that French diplomat’s wife Eleonore sitting between you and His Majesty — ”

  Horace was horrified, not having thought of this possibility. The purpose of his presence was to further good relations between Britain and America, without all eyes being on that damned attractive countess. He needed an Englishwoman.

  “I’ll check with Thomas that she’s well away from the king,” he said grimly. Then he looked more carefully at the Dizzy Duchess who was gazing at him in admiration. It was a long time since a woman had done that; their gaze was usually directed straight at his pocket-book.