by Amy Myers
Murder with Majesty
Amy Myers
© Amy Myers 1999
Amy Myers has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1999 by Severn House Publishers Limited.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Author’s Note
The press reported that on Saturday, 29th April 1905, His Majesty King Edward VII began a few days’ private visit to Paris, and later, unusually, recorded his displeasure at Press curiosity about his movements during this visit. This novel reveals the reason why. However, a few minor adjustments have had to be made to His Majesty’s official timetable later in the month.
Apart from tendering apologies to his late Majesty, I would also like to record my debt to Adrian Turner, who suggested one of the main storylines of this novel, and to my agent Dorothy Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency for her usual helpful and knowledgeable hand on the tiller.
A. M.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Prologue
“Cursed are the Montfoys; the dragon will have his day.”
“Be shut of such talk, Aggie, there’s work to do.”
Bert Wickman, mastering his own misgivings, took vigorous command of the Committee for the Preservation of the White Dragon Inn. It was in his interests to do so, for he was the landlord, even though he heavily endorsed Aggie’s opinion of the Montfoys who had owned most of Frimhurst since the time of the Conqueror; this included his pub, whose emblem stemmed from the Montfoy armorial bearings. Three years earlier the present Lord Montfoy, all but bankrupt, had retreated to the former Dower House and sold Farthing Court together with the entire estate. Mr Thomas Entwhistle, away much of the time, had proved a surprisingly beneficent lord of the manor, but at times the long dark shadow of the Montfoys came home to roost with a vengeance. This was one of them.
Aggie Potter, cast in a role she had no difficulty in playing, that of ancient crone and wise woman, glared morosely into her mild and bitter.
“Beware the fires of Beltane,” she muttered. At her side the small, cosy fire in the taproom spluttered in friendly sympathy at Aggie’s cracked black boots and wool stockings which were revealed under the serge skirt she had hitched up ‘to feel the benefit’.
Frimhurst, as it had for the last fourteen hundred years at least, was preparing to greet the rebirth of the land. Once it called it Beltane and lit bonfires, now it was May Day and was usually paid scant attention, save for a fifteen-foot pole in the grounds of the village school, round which garlanded tots endeavoured to strangle themselves with paper flowers and string.
In this year of 1905, however, a crisis had dramatically altered the situation. The Kentish writer Charles Igglesden on his saunters would — had he chanced upon Frimhurst — have observed that the village, which had evolved over the centuries by the river Crane in the Weald of Kent, earned itself a living through growing hops and fruit. Even though it retained its semi-feudal structure of subservience to the Farthing estate, it appeared to have been a comfortable living in the last few years since the coming of Mr Entwhistle and the just deserts (as the village worthies termed it) of the Montfoys. Its mellow red-brick houses with their peg-tiled roofs jostled side by side with oak-beamed mediaeval cottages; the grey-stone church, on the opposite side of the green to the White Dragon, smiled peacefully down on its flock. But now all this was under threat. The heart of the village, if not its soul, was at stake: the pub.
The committee of seven huddled round the fire on an early March evening: Bert and Bessie Wickman, Alf Spade (the aptly named builder), his wife Adelaide, Harry Thatcher, the young postman (to represent the younger generation), and the two ancients, Aggie Potter and Jacob Meadows (to represent the elders of the village).
“Dancing with bells,” snarled Bert, marching to the bar to dispatch his profit recklessly for once.
“Maypoles,” echoed his wife in disgust, conscious that her own days of playing May Queen were long past.
“We’ll have to do it.” Bert looked round his team. “But we must organise it proper. Give them a show, shall we?” He grinned. “Americans,” he added disgustedly, spitting on the taproom floor. “Let’s show ’em what old England can do, eh? Squire Entwhistle means what he said all right. He’ll close us down if we don’t knuckle under, and what’s the village going to do without the White Dragon?” Much beer flowed in search of avoidance of this catastrophe and several hours later, tentative plans had been laid and agreed.
Only Mrs Aggie Potter entered a caveat, muttering into her medicinal pint, “The fairy folk will not be mocked.” But most of her fellow conspirators, to whom fairies were merely a matter of fluttering innocuous creatures in picture books and who had long forgotten their grandmothers’ warnings of darker forces, unfortunately paid no attention.
Chapter One
It was only a wedding!
Auguste Didier, master chef (when he was permitted to cook), had feared the worst when His Majesty King Edward VII had demanded his presence that morning churning over in his mind what trespasses he could possibly have committed, as if he were back in the small school in Mont Chevalier in his native Cannes. Now he almost skipped away from Buckingham Palace and along Bird Cage Walk with relief. It had been good news.
“Ah, Did — Auguste, good morning.” His Majesty had remembered in time that Auguste was a member of the family, albeit second class. “How do you fancy May Day in Kent?” Auguste rose from his deep bow apprehensively. Was His Majesty suggesting a cousinly jaunt in his Daimler? His hopes grew. Cooking for Bertie was not the easiest task in the world. Auguste’s marriage to Tatiana had brought problems, not least of which was that he, formerly apprenticed to Escoffier himself, was forbidden to cook, save privately — or for His Majesty.
“Cooking for a wedding,” the king amplified.
“Not for Your Majesty?” Hopes shot up even higher. “Of course for me.” A certain testiness came into the royal voice. “And a couple of thousand other people, too, if I know Horace Pennyfather.”
“Pennyfather?” Auguste knew that name. He had met the American soft drinks millionaire some years ago and liked him. He was an amiable man for all his steely determination to push Pennyfather non-alcoholic products down every throat in the world.
“Decent sort of fellow. His daughter’s getting married to a friend of mine, Lord Montfoy.”
Auguste racked his brains. That name rang a bell too. “The wedding’s to be held on May Day.”
“Where will it be, Your Majesty?”
The King stared at him in amazement, then realised the fellow was a foreigner and his usual courtesy returned. “Farthing Court in Kent. There have been Montfoys at Farthings since the Conquest. Ah,” he broke off, “now there is one difficulty, two in fact.”
He should have guessed it. Auguste’s heart sank. There always were difficulties with Bertie.
“They’re both strictly secret.” His Majesty eyed his remote cousin by marriage warningly, as though half-French chefs were notorious for rushing round London society with their monarch’s most private revelations. “Farthing Court doesn’t belong to Arthur Montfoy any longer. He’s moved into the Dower House.”
“That is sad indeed. Farthing Court is one of your favourite weekend house-party venues, is it not?” Now the name of Montfoy came into focus in August
e’s mind.
The king frowned as though it were bad form to mention this. “Couldn’t afford to keep it. He’s sold it to a splendid fellow. Thomas Entwhistle.” This name meant nothing to Auguste. “He lives abroad most of the time. He’s been very helpful, and allowed Arthur to move back in for the wedding.”
“I understand, Sir.” Auguste relaxed. Nothing too ominous.
“Now here’s the important part. Entwhistle is to be best man, but so far as the bride, her family and guests know Lord Montfoy still owns Farthing Court — and lives in it. Got that?”
“I — yes.” That seemed the simplest answer, though several tantalising questions sprang to mind. However, as Tatiana had so often reminded him, “Don’t put Bertie in a bother.”
“Good. Now there’s something else. I shall be there, but I’m not.”
“Je m’excuse?”
His Majesty looked irritated. “I’m shortly leaving on a state visit to the Mediterranean. Algiers and so forth. I’ll be away some weeks, but I’ll arrive at Farthing Court the day before the wedding. The press are going to be under the impression I’m on a private visit to Paris, but I won’t be there until it becomes official on the Wednesday, two days after the wedding. Clear?”
If only the question “Why?” was one that could be asked of kings. For Bertie to give up the chance of a visit to the Folies Bergère and a very private dinner at Voisin afterwards, meant this wedding promised to be a most spectacular event.
Auguste bowed and retreated, his curiosity unsatisfied. However, as difficulties went with Bertie, these were very light. Or so he fondly imagined.
*
What could be more fortuitous? Tatiana was to be away in Paris in early May to see her Russian relations, and to while away the time (and to avoid his publisher’s pressing demands for the manuscript of Dining with Didier, to which he was putting the last perfecting details) he had the bliss of cooking for a wedding. True, it would be a little awkward maintaining the pretence that Farthing Court still belonged to Lord Montfoy for his conscience pricked him at the need for deceiving Horace Pennyfather.
However, Auguste reminded himself, he was merely the cook. Then a terrible thought struck him. Would the guests be expected to drink Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub, Pennyfather’s famous non-alcoholic potion? He would not dignify such a beverage with the word drink. No. He recalled Pennyfather as a sensible gentleman.
He was conducted up to a suite in the Ritz Hotel where Horace Pennyfather, looking very little changed from their first meeting, save for greying hair, rose to greet him. A man of medium, sturdy build, his face still bore that pleasant but somewhat lost look that, together with the carefully waxed moustache, hid his shrewdness so well. Auguste was already planning in his mind the sumptuous banquet he would produce. Before his eyes floated images of turbot with truffles in champagne sauce, caneton aux olives, pêches aiglon, and others of the infinite wonders of the world of cuisine.
Horace Pennyfather greeted him warmly, though even as he talked of their earlier meeting it occurred to Auguste he was not quite the man he was. He appeared nervous, not the self-composed gentleman Auguste recalled.
“Before my daughter arrives,” he almost stuttered, “perhaps I should show you what she has in mind for the menu.”
What she has in mind … that sounded distinctly ominous.
Horace produced from the writing desk a long sheet of paper almost entirely covered in firm black copperplate writing, and handed it to Auguste in silence. And no wonder. Auguste had dim memories of having seen such words in books, but they bore no relation to a self-respecting chef’s life.
“Succotash?” he asked grimly.
“Old settler dish,” Horace mumbled. “Corn and lima beans. Very tasty.”
“Hominy grits?” Auguste had a vision of His Majesty supping on a dish of such a name.
“Southern food.”
“Shoofly Pie?”
“Pennsylvanian Dutch.”
“Jambalaya?”
“New Orleans.”
Auguste put the list down. “Mr Pennyfather, I regret there is only one dish on this menu I feel qualified to undertake and that is Thomas Jefferson’s vanilla ice cream. Perhaps a different chef — ”
“No, no. You” Horace pleaded unhappily. “Gertrude is kind of patriotic, I guess. Why, she even takes chicken hash at breakfast, and that was good enough for President Andrew Jackson.”
Faced not with a dead American president, but a very present British king and emperor, Auguste battled with his dilemma: to disobey His Majesty was treason, but after cooking such a meal any chef with honour should commit suicide. He decided he would rather lose his head than his integrity.
“Non,” he replied, as politely as he could make the word sound. “Je regrette que cela n’est pas possible.”
“There are no such words as pas possible, Mr Didier.” Auguste leapt to his feet as the cool feminine voice from behind startled him. The lady who had just sailed through the door could only be Gertrude Pennyfather, and the reason for her father’s nervousness promptly became apparent. This was a lady of even more decided views than Horace’s own. She was a tall young woman, as tall as he himself, Auguste judged, at 5 feet 9 inches; her face immediately demanded attention, handsome rather than pretty, with large intense grey eyes, and something that may have been a gleam of humour behind them. The oval face, however, obviously preferred to remain formidably straight.
“You are correct, madame.”
Auguste bowed on being introduced. “In general impossibility might not exist, but in the particular, it does. Even when related to such a charming bride as yourself.”
“Why?” She seemed interested rather than angry.
Auguste, hesitating, decided on honesty. “There are two reasons, madame. The first is my integrity as a chef; the second is His Majesty King Edward VII, your honoured guest, of whose palate I have a vast experience.”
“Your integrity, Mr Didier, does not concern me. I admit I am less certain of His Majesty.”
“Gertrude, honey,” Horace intervened feebly — so feebly now that Auguste wondered how the errand boy had ever risen to millionaire — “I think you should listen to Mr Didier.”
“I listen to everyone, Father,” Gertrude replied equably. “If what they tell me is rational, I then consider it.”
“Gertrude is an admirer of your Mrs Pankhurst,” Horace announced with a fine disregard of Auguste’s nationality.
Auguste did not even notice, for he had lived in England so long that he was conditioned into accepting Mrs Pankhurst as one of his own. In any case, Tatiana introduced her suffragist movement and name so frequently at breakfast that he often felt as though Mrs Pankhurst lived next door.
“His Majesty’s palate appreciates,” he explained, “both the best and the simplest: a mutton chop well presented, or the most exquisite creations that French cuisine can produce.”
True to her word, Gertrude gave this earnest consideration. “Pray be seated, Mr Didier.” She strode to the writing desk, turned her rejected menu over and began again. After a mere ten minutes, she rose and presented the fruits of her endeavours to Auguste.
In trepidation he read it, “Salmagundi. Hindle Wakes. Whim-wham. Lancashire Hot Pot. Dressed mock turtle. Pickled Kent pippins. Tansy fritters. Spotted Dick. Green codling pudding … ” Once again he lay the list down, searching for tactful words to explain that he could not present the monarch with an old boiling fowl disguised with lemon sauce and stuffed with prunes, not if he wished to remain married to Tatiana and the House of Lords was not to be summoned to issue an instant divorce on grounds of insanity.
Gertrude’s eyes were on him. “Well?” she demanded hopefully. “Simple old-fashioned, English dishes. What more do you want?”
Horace fidgeted. “I guess I should explain, Mr Didier. My daughter has long been interested in our own magnificent heritage, and is now planning to study your English folklore.”
“I aim to get into the E
nglish parliament, Mr Didier, with a message shouted loud and clear: ‘Preserve your heritage’.”
Auguste was inclined to think that even if Mr Balfour, the Conservative prime minister, were miraculously to persuade parliament and the British public instantly that all women should have the vote, her marriage to a peer of the realm would prove a stumbling block to such a role. All he said was, “You would, I am sure, be an asset to Mr Balfour’s party.”
“Oh no, I’m aiming to join Mr Keir Hardie’s new Labour Party. Pa agrees with me that’s the way to the future. I intend to look after the rights of the downtrodden workers; I’ve already spoken to Arthur about my reforms for his estate.”
Auguste opened his mouth, and decided to close it again. He was even more glad he was returning to London the day after the wedding. After that, it seemed to him, there could be stormy waters at Farthing Court. However, his job was the preservation of the king’s palate in the interests of the entente cordiale between England and France. Diplomacy was the solution.
“There is an excellent French phrase, madame, le chef propose … It is not essential for diners to follow such advice, but the true connoisseurs of cuisine know it is very wise to do so.”
“Why?”
“The chef’s heart is in it. Moreover, the ingredients are frequently the fresher.”
Gertrude’s eyes gleamed, and he could have sworn she was about to smile. She did not. “The second would seem to follow from the first. So, Monsieur Didier, kindly propose.”
“For the wedding feast itself, an old-fashioned traditional English dinner in two courses — ”
“In the States that wouldn’t feed a flea,” Horace declared, outraged. “Let me tell you, Mr Didier — ”
“Each course,” Auguste continued hastily, “would consist of twenty or so plats, presented simultaneously, of which guests may make their own choice according to taste. I suggest a mixture of your excellent English traditional dishes and French cuisine, such as roast duck and cucumbers, and faisan au façon Didier … fruit, cheese, entremets and savouries would follow of course.”
