Murder with Majesty

by Amy Myers

  Cricket, as played in Frimhurst, was not an exciting event. Indeed even the players seemed to realise they were remarkably bad at the game and as anxious to get it over as His Majesty was himself. He had noticed a rather smart football pitch on the outskirts of the village, and wondered whether this had anything to do with the lack of enthusiasm shown by the players.

  “I don’t understand this game,” Horace declared, to the full sympathy of His Majesty. “Why do these fellows keep moving about?”

  “The field changes,” Arthur explained kindly.

  “Looks the same to me.” Horace paused. “Are you sure you’re going to be happy here, Gertrude?”

  “Of course, Father.” Gertrude laid her hand over her fiancé’s. “How could I not be happy as Arthur’s wife and the Lady of Farthing Court?”

  Arthur grinned self-consciously, for a moment forgetting that all too soon the clock would strike midnight on his masquerade, and Cinderella’s rags would once again be revealed.

  *

  Not all the guests had obediently followed the bridal couple to the cricket field. Young Gerald had plans of his own, though he took some time to put them into operation since he could not find Jeanne Planchet anywhere. Surely she had not forgotten their assignation? He decided to take a risk, and visit the ladies’ corridor at Farthing Court, since everyone should be safely at the match.

  His daring was rewarded in finding Jeanne leaving Gertrude’s room in somewhat abstracted mood. She did not even look surprised to see him, but merely said, “Not today, monsieur.”

  Gerald was indignant. “Why not? Your mistress won’t need you until it’s time to change for tea.”

  “I’ve had a shock.”

  “What?” He was all concern, since usually this was the cause of immediate rapport.

  She hesitated. “I saw Lord Montfoy coming out of a lady’s bedroom.”

  Gerald laughed aloud. The old dog. Arthur must have more to him than he’d suspected. He wondered what use he could make of the information. “Which room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jeanne knew perfectly well but it didn’t do to let too much information pass out of one’s hands. Her memory would return Gerald reasoned, and meanwhile he knew the surest remedy for girls’ shock: the application of a strong dose of himself. His hand went round her waist. It was removed.

  “Non, monsieur.”

  *

  “Maiden over.”

  “Excuse me?” Harvey Bolland, miles away in a dream of making another fortune by industrialising the whole of Colorado with Gertrude at his side, jumped at this extraordinary statement. Was Bluebell making some youthful declaration?

  “That’s what it’s called when no runs are scored.” Bluebell’s face gleamed with satisfaction. She, at least, was enjoying this quaint archaic survival.

  Harvey perceived that maidens had something to do with the extremely dull game in progress before them. In baseball the whole object was for something to happen, in cricket the object seemed to be that nothing should. Occasionally one of the fellows stirred himself to run up to the opposite wicket and then run back; or someone hanging around the field exerted himself to run after the ball, but much of the time they just strolled after it, or merely stood and watched it. He could make nothing of it, and decided that the rules stated that only if the king were in danger from a ball striking him on the head would someone make some effort to run to prevent his premature removal from the throne.

  “I think there’s something strange going on.”

  “Sure is,” Harvey agreed gloomily. “Beats me why the English get so excited about it.”

  Bluebell cast him a scathing look, none too sure that Harvey was any advance on Arthur, save in his choice of domicile.

  “At Farthing Court, I mean.”

  “In what way?” Harvey’s curiosity was at last aroused.

  “Arthur doesn’t seem to know his staff.”

  Harvey was disappointed. “That’s England for you, honey.”

  “And when do these village folks get any work done? They’re always playing games.”

  “It’s a kind of holiday, I guess, when the lord of the manor gets married.”

  “And what was Lord Montfoy doing coming out of another woman’s bedroom?”

  “What?”

  “A maid told me.” Bluebell was greatly pleased at his reaction. “I don’t know which room, but she saw him come out and run down the ladies’ stairs.”

  “Say, Bluebell, find out, will you? And quickly. There’s no time to lose.” Harvey’s eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of a settler with his Newfoundland before him. His dream could well be on the way to fulfilment. He’d heard about the antics of the decadent English aristocracy, and now he knew his mission was to save Gertrude. Using any means at his disposal.

  *

  Jeanne Planchet had retreated to the bedroom she shared with two other ladies’ maids, glad to find it empty. She needed time to think about the shocking discovery she had made. This house was not what it seemed, and it might hold dangerous problems for her. America loomed all the more enticingly. She had not been over-surprised to see Lord Montfoy coming out of a lady’s bedroom, and it had not been that of his bride-to-be. These things happened. He had looked guilty too. Jeanne had seen too many men, startled in the midst of their misdeeds, to mistake it. She had no time for men now; she merely had to consider how to turn the menacing events of today to her advantage. Telling her lady’s young sister and Mr Montfoy about Lord Montfoy’s odd visit was a good start. But if America was to become a reality, she needed to take positive action in the field she most feared.

  *

  Auguste tried hard to devote himself to the finer points of cuisine, but for once his concentration flagged. One might feel passionately over the correctness of the precise proportions of foie gras to forcemeat in the stuffing for the specially imported snipe in côtelettes de bécassines à la Souvaroff but compared with the worry of whether one would still be in the world to hear His Majesty’s appreciation of it, it was an irrelevant matter. Around him the kitchen rose to boiling point with excitement and subsided again, yet he found himself staring at the foundations of one of the flancs, to decorate one of the table corners, with unseeing eyes. He was a maypole in the midst of an unknown dance.

  “The quails have not yet arrived!” Once, Ethelred Perkins’ desperate shriek would have thrown him into panic. Now, it was one more minor hiccup.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he heard himself saying.

  Ethelred stared at him in amazement. “His Majesty insists on them. You told me.”

  Auguste forced himself to sound concerned. “Of course, of course. But I will substitute ortolans and tell him they are a sign of good fortune.”

  Ethelred, perplexed, cast him a look of deep suspicion.

  His Majesty, in Auguste’s view, needed good fortune. They both did, with Gregorin in the house.

  “The jelly hasn’t set, Mr Didier. It’s the fairies.” Jenny pulled a long face.

  “It is far more likely to be the temperature in this kitchen,” Auguste pointed out. “Or insufficient gelatine.”

  Jenny’s face remained doleful. “The fairies tampered with the calf’s foot. They’re watching, you see.”

  Jenny’s future husband, Auguste sincerely hoped, would be a patient, long-suffering man. He had now discovered that the Potters came from a long line of witches. Most village wise women cried in the wilderness. Not the Potters. They intended to be heard at every opportunity. Whether the fairies were watching or not, they seemed unlikely to be powerful enough to avert the horror awaiting him this evening — dining at His Majesty’s table with a man who had every intention of murdering him. Moreover, it meant that part of his schedule must be left to Ethelred and Jenny to carry out. What if the glorious Ethelred were in Gregorin’s pay? What if the snipe were poisoned in his, Auguste’s, absence? Was this part of Gregorin’s plan for him or for His Majesty? Should he suggest a food taster
for His Majesty?

  The cuckoo in the kitchen clock flew out to mock him. Five o’clock. His Majesty would be returning crossly for his tea, normally provided an hour earlier. Hearing sounds outside, Auguste peered out of the window, unable to see anything because of the laurel hedge that divided the sordid working domain of the house from elegant view. He wondered whether it was beneath the dignity of a master chef to climb on a chair, decided it was, and ran through to the garden entrance on the far side of the green baize door.

  He was relieved to see in the open Peugeot His Majesty, still alive, and moreover looking a much happier man than could be expected after enduring a cricket match. The reason was not far to seek. Sitting at his side was the Comtesse Eleonore. Her beauty and charm had the power of keeping the beam on His Majesty’s face despite a bevy of village maidens running alongside the motor car. Each one of the latter was anxiously being assessed by the two Special Branch detectives lest she were an assassin in disguise. Fortunately none of them was, though their intent was not wholly innocent.

  *

  Bert Wickman had unwisely left this part of the arrangements to Bessie, Adelaide and Alf, being preoccupied with raising sufficient ghosts; he was fearful lest now squire was here, something might displease him, and the White Dragon would slip from his grasp.

  “I’ll do it,” Bessie had said complacently. “After all, I do know the house.” And the summer house, she reflected, the folly, the Dower House and on several occasions the old copse. She preferred a bed, but Artie had told her it was lucky in that copse. It hadn’t proved so.

  All Bert had approved was a few humble obeisances to His Majesty and heaps of flowers strewn before the house. Aggie Potter, sensing her opportunity for revenge upon the Montfoys, and aided and abetted by Bessie, had moved in on the ceremony. Six village maidens (officially) at Aggie’s suggestion abandoned tiresome primroses, violets and anemones and instead cut armfuls of white may, which they happily waved gracefully at His Majesty as he beamed from the motor car.

  Wisely, Bessie allowed His Majesty, against whom she had no quarrel, to enter his temporary domain in peace. As soon as he, his detectives, ushers, gentlemen ushers, Gold Stick and several equerries, had vanished to their allotted wing, Aggie pulled the bellrope on the main door, and looked approvingly at the holed flat stone which had now been moved to pride of place at the front entrance.

  Mr Stuart Tudor gazed aghast at what he saw, and forgot his impeccable butler English. “What the blazes are you doing here, Aggie Potter?” he hissed. “You’ll have the whole bloomin’ Household Cavalry down here and us in the Tower.”

  Aggie merely grinned at him, did a ritual totter, and beckoned to her team, who obediently chorused after her:

  Rat tat, welcome we pray,

  Cursed be him that bids us nay,

  For we bring the happy may

  To dress the bridal home hooray.

  Mr Tudor, with three years’ experience of Aggie, was highly doubtful of the provenance of this ancient rhyme, but since Mr Entwhistle’s instructions were to let all village customs take their course, he reluctantly let them in. One old lady, one fine strapping woman and six comely wenches couldn’t do much harm. He hoped not, anyway, for it was impossible to keep an eye on all of them as they gambolled around the entrance hall, poking branches of flowers on furniture, behind pictures of ancestral Montfoys and in the balustrade of the stairs. The hall looked pretty when they had done. Brightened it up a bit in Mr Tudor’s opinion, and after all he was only doing his duty. He carefully counted them as he showed them out again. All eight obediently exited.

  Opinions of their efforts varied greatly. Gertrude, descending for dinner in an unfashionably simply cut peach-coloured satin evening skirt and bodice which, without the flounces and frills so beloved of London Society, showed off her statuesque figure to best advantage, was delighted. Horace did not notice. Mrs Honey recoiled in horror, and promptly sought out Mr Tudor who, somewhat bewildered, explained the reason for its presence. Mrs Honey lost all her plump motherliness.

  “What’s Aggie Potter thinking of? She be fair crazed,” she shouted.

  “Why’s that, Mrs Honey?”

  “Everyone knows white may in the house means bad luck. And what’s that stone doing out in the porch?”

  “It just arrived.” Mr Tudor grew uneasy. He had suddenly remembered old Jacob Meadows’ rhyme: ‘When may doth pass the stone that’s ground … ’, and the mysterious stone that had appeared with a hole bored through its centre acquired an ominous significance. Mr Tudor did not believe in farisees (he had done too much stir for that) but he did believe in a sixth sense for trouble if it was heading for Stuart Tudor. And he had it now. Still, it was none of his business what happened. He was only the butler, following orders, and the rhyme had said nothing about butlers. Then he had a happy thought: the rhyme had surely begun, ‘Farthings’ lord be nobly crowned’, and was intended for Lord Montfoy. Moreover, Jacob had implied it was good luck, not bad. He voiced his happy thought.

  “Cuckolded,” Mrs Honey declared succinctly in reply. “That’s what it means.”

  Mr Tudor appeared shocked. “Mrs Honey, it’s his lordship’s wedding day tomorrow. Surely the new Lady Montfoy would not be thinking of taking a lover? No, no, you have it wrong. It is a happy sign that the marriage will be crowned in triumph.”

  “Cuckolded,” Mrs Honey repeated in gloomy satisfaction. “You mark my words.”

  *

  There was one comforting thought for Auguste. He was to take Eleonore in to dinner and sit by her. She was looking particularly appealing this evening, shimmering in a dinner gown of pale-blue satin, diamonds gleaming at her throat and sparkling in her dark hair. His comfort did not last very long, as Mr Tudor came up to her with a murmured message. She turned to Auguste with a regretful, but delightful, moué of discontent.

  “My dear Auguste, we are to be parted yet again. It seems His Majesty wishes to continue the conversation on Longchamp that we embarked upon this afternoon. I am to sit on one side of him, Gertrude on the other. I fear Mr Tudor is not pleased at this late change.”

  Auguste was absolutely certain he would not be. All afternoon Mr Tudor had been busy in arranging the tables (suitably non-green to accommodate Gertrude’s wishes), and a last minute change would greatly annoy him.

  “Do be kind to Louisa, won’t you, Auguste? She has been displaced, I fear.” A gurgle of laughter. “And as for our own conversation, shall we say — later?”

  He felt sorry for the duchess, relegated to sit by his side, when she was used to a far more exalted position, and was pleasantly flattered when, in between many swivels of the head, she displayed not only a deep knowledge of Paris, but a great interest in Tatiana and his connection with the Russian community. The rest of the time her head was turned to where His Majesty was engaging in spirited talk with Eleonore.

  Auguste pitied Eleonore too. It was no easy matter to keep the king amused, let alone amusing him by encouraging him to do much of the talking. All the guests had reason to be grateful to her, for if the king did not talk, he finished each course the faster. When he had finished, everyone felt obliged to finish, and as he was a rapid eater, many were the times Auguste had seen the choicest morsels of sole, or soufflé, returned to the kitchen, followed by the anguished looks of diners, as their sad, desirous eyes followed the journey of the remains of the ambrosia still untasted on the plates.

  He regretted the Dizzy Duchess’s abstraction for, to his horror, Thomas Entwhistle was placed opposite him, and he, unlike the duchess, seemed disposed to chat.

  “The comtesse is an attractive lady, is she not?”

  “Yes, Mr Entwhistle. Have you met her in Paris?” This exchange of small talk with one’s would-be murderer was quite ridiculous.

  “We move in different circles, but I am acquainted with her and with her husband. I understand you too lived in Paris at one time.”

  “Indeed, and my wife still maintains a home there.”
As Gregorin knows full well, Auguste thought savagely.

  “Might I enquire where?”

  “In the rue Daru. And you, sir?” He knew all too well. By the Parc Monceau.

  “Place Vendôme,” Entwhistle replied blandly. “I trust I may have the pleasure of your calling upon me there?”

  At last! Auguste rejoiced. There he had tripped him up. He would ask Egbert to check. There would be no home in the Place Vendôme.

  “Tell me, Mr Didier. What is your opinion of English versus French cheeses? These English cheeses are admirable. I have a particular … ” Entwhistle stopped for a moment before continuing smoothly, but it was enough. Auguste shivered, as confirmation joined conviction. Gregorin unusually had made a mistake, and realised it, for English cheese had brought them face to face for the first time in Yorkshire. Just for an instant the disguise had slipped. It was Gregorin.

  *

  How he longed to be back in the comparative safety of the kitchen, yet later that evening, he was still a prisoner. The only good news was a whispered message from Mr Tudor that the quail had arrived. He made them sound like honoured guests. Auguste looked round the gathering, His Majesty was playing bridge with Eleonore as his enforced partner, and ladies and gentlemen conversed in small groups around this elegant drawing room. He was immensely bored and, unable to leave until His Majesty had retired, longed for something to break the monotony. His wish was dramatically granted.

  The door was thrown open and Mr Tudor, bereft of words, ushered in Bert Wickman, who appeared to have taken up farming. His corduroy trousers were tied round with string, an old-fashioned smock and a cap adorned his upper half, the latter being swiftly removed. Small pieces of straw, sticking out wherever possible, completed his ensemble.