by Amy Myers
“She has not.” Egbert thought for a moment. “But I think it’s time to talk to the grieving widow, don’t you?”
*
Gertrude received them in the blue drawing room, and her father sat at her side. She was very pale, and the unrelieved black gown did little to help. There was no sign of weeping, however, though Auguste would have expected no less from a woman of Gertrude’s strength of character. Horace, on the other hand, was more clearly under strain, although he immediately looked at Egbert Rose with keen interest.
“Don’t I recognise you?” he asked.
“You met Chief Inspector Rose at the affair of Lady Wantage’s Temperance Soirée. Where we first had the privilege of drinking Pilgrim’s Cherry Shrub,” Auguste could not resist adding.
“Sure.” Horace remembered that too. “That’s what launched it over here. Now what about this murder? I don’t mind telling you it’s been a shock.”
“So I gather. You discovered some unpleasant facts about your son-in-law after the wedding.” Egbert too could be a master of understatement.
The amiability vanished from Horace’s eyes. “I have good lawyers, Chief Inspector. They’d have had Gertrude out of that marriage in a flash without my needing to murder him.”
“Where were you last night, Lady Montfoy?”
“Must you call me that?” she pleaded.
“Why not, honey?” her father intervened. “Face life straight on, that’s what I always tell you.”
Gertrude gathered her strength. “In my room alone, I retired at eleven thirty and found the new room ready for me. The door was bolted. Pa had advised I moved rooms after the shock we had yesterday afternoon.”
“Can anyone confirm that?” Egbert asked.
“My maid was there, when I came up from the dance.”
“But there was nothing to stop you going out through later?”
“Why should I?” Gertrude replied quietly.
“It’s possible you might have wanted to follow Lord Montfoy down to the maypole. Did you persuade Arthur to go down there?”
“Originally, yes, I wanted to go together, but Arthur insisted we went separately for some reason. He suggested I came with the others at twelve o’clock.”
“And did you?”
An angry flush came to her face.
“What for? I had by then decided to sleep alone. I had, it may not surprise you to know, no interest in this particular tradition after our discovery yesterday.”
“You might have wanted to see him look ridiculous.”
“That may be the kind of joke you’d play in England, Mr Rose,” Horace declared, “but we don’t fool around when we’ve been deceived. We let the lawyers get on with the job, and move on to something new.”
“Then why did he go?”
“I’ve no idea. He did not mention it to me. Perhaps he thought it would please me. We had one dance together, for form’s sake, on the Monday evening, and I did not speak to him alone after that.”
Egbert left the matter of the maypole.
“How well did you know the estate, Lady Montfoy?”
“It was my first visit. Arthur took me round it on Saturday.”
“We’re interested in who could have had access to the folly. It was usually kept locked, but I understand it was unlocked all this weekend.”
“Arthur unlocked it on Saturday — ”
“Gertrude!” Horace’s voice was sharp.
“And he left it unlocked,” she continued calmly. “He said it wouldn’t matter for they’ d need to get the horns out for the Monday dance.”
“So anyone could have marched in a picked up a bow and arrows?”
“Yes.”
Horace relaxed, though not for long.
“I’ve been hearing tales about Lord Montfoy giving you a diamond necklace, Lady Montfoy.”
Gertrude looked surprised. “They are incorrect. The only necklace Arthur ever gave me was a string of red beads we won at a seaside fair. He told me my price was far above rubies. I guess I was taken in by that. Price was all that interested him about me. When was he supposed to have given it to me?”
“On Sunday or Monday.”
“Arthur gave me nothing.” Her voice suggested that was the end of the matter, and to Auguste’s surprise, Egbert seemed to agree.
“May I ask you what your plans are now?”
“I shall stay here, with Mr Entwhistle’s permission, until the funeral is over and then return to London.”
“And then,” Horace said grimly, “we’re going back to the States where there’s less folklore and more sense.” Gertrude did not comment.
At that moment, the door opened and Bluebell, clad uncomfortably in black, which she hated, marched in uninvited and with true Pennyfather determination. She had decided on a bold approach.
“What are you doing here, honey?” asked Horace kindly. “It’s no place for you.”
“I’ve got something to confess to the inspector.” Bluebell stood, hands clasped meekly before her
“Oh no, you don’t” her father informed her immediately. “Not till my lawyer gets here.”
“No, Pa,” Bluebell pushed her spectacles further up her nose. “I need to tell the inspector now.”
“And what’s that, miss?”
“Bluebell — ” Horace yelled, but his daughter took no notice.
“Gertrude had asked me to help her with the folklore book and to make a note of all the rhymes and superstitions I heard. Didn’t you, Gertrude?” Gertrude nodded. “Well, there was this rhyme about the lord of the manor having to ask Herne the Hunter’s permission for there to be a wedding at Farthing Court.”
“We know about that, miss, and that you told everyone about it.”
“Oh.” Bluebell looked disappointed. “I thought you’d want to know I had a special talk with a few of the guests, and some of them were very interested.”
“Who, honey?” Horace seemed to have withdrawn his objections.
“Mr Waites was — ”
“Bluebell!” Gertrude cried in alarm. “You’re not suggesting — ”
“He was interested,” Bluebell said defiantly. “Others were too. Gerald Montfoy, the countess, the duchess — ”
“Louisa?” Horace asked.
“Just interested, Pa.” Bluebell didn’t want to go too far in dissuading her father from marrying the duchess or it might rebound on her head. “Mr Bolland wasn’t at all interested, though. He was so unhappy that you were married, Gertrude, he told me he was going to drink a bottle of whisky and go to bed. He didn’t want to go down to the maypole at midnight just to see Arthur.” This was a nice touch, she thought.
“Richard would never do such a thing.” Gertrude became animated for the first time, as she shot a venomous look at her little sister. “I don’t believe you, Bluebell. Make her tell the truth, Pa.”
“Are you, Bluebell?” Horace asked.
“Sure I am.”
“Who else, Miss Pennyfather?” Egbert asked.
Bluebell considered. “I told your maid Gertrude, and Mr Entwhistle, and Lady Belinda. I looked for you, Mr Chef, but couldn’t find you.”
“Are you sure this is the truth, young lady?” Horace asked.
“Pa, you brought us up to be like George Washington, so you always say.” Bluebell started to cry. Her conscience pricked her that she hadn’t exactly told all the truth, but she hadn’t actually lied so that was all right. She left the room and went in search of Harvey, who was looking extremely happy, as he contemplated a future life with Gertrude in a Denver mansion as big as Horace Tabor’s, Colorado’s Silver King.
“The police don’t suspect you any more,” she reassured him.
The smile promptly disappeared from his face. “What the heck do you mean, Bluebell?”
“I told them, the police, that you went to bed with a bottle of whisky and not down to the maypole. That’s right, isn’t it?”
He stared at her blankly, then pulled himself together
and agreed hastily. “Sure, sure it’s right, Bluebell.”
*
“Motive.” Egbert clasped his hands gloomily behind his back. “The new Lord Montfoy had one presumably. The Countess Eleonore didn’t have one, so far as we know, nor the Duchess of Wessex, but both Mr Waites and Mr Bolland seemed to be rival suitors for Gertrude’s hand from what you tell me. The Pennyfathers have a motive, for all their talk of lawyers. What about the servants, Auguste?”
“The upper servants are all new since Gregorin — Mr Entwhistle came, so it’s difficult to see what motive they would have. The visiting servants seem unlikely too. Only Jeanne Planchet, Gertrude’s maid, would know Lord Montfoy at all well.”
“And the village? They’ve been eager enough to rove all over the place in doublet and tights.”
“And the ghosts.”
“Ghosts? You haven’t told me about that.”
“By daylight I don’t believe in ghosts. It must have been organised by the village for the benefit of the bride. Effectively, however.” Auguste remembered the eeriness of that wood at midnight. “There was something very sinister there. But perhaps,” he added, “that was because Gregorin was standing behind me.”
“Auguste!” Egbert said warningly.
“It’s hard to see ghosts could have anything to do with it,” Auguste said hastily. “They appeared on the Sunday night, not the Monday. For the benefit of His Majesty too.”
“Talking of whom, it’s time for my appointment.” Egbert rose to leave for the royal apartments.
“I’ll walk along with you.” To see Bertie with Egbert might save him from the worst of the royal wrath, Auguste thought hopefully.
The royal wing seemed deserted, though the door was opened rapidly enough. It was a different equerry and there was no sign of Gold Stick. He seemed somewhat surprised to hear Egbert had an appointment. “His Majesty left this morning for Paris, sir. Reasons of state.”
“Left? I saw no signs of it.” Egbert was greatly annoyed. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“I can’t think, sir. An oversight on Mr Sweeney’s part, perhaps.”
Perhaps. Or perhaps not. “I saw no signs of his leaving.”
“I believe he left by the rear door, sir. By arrangement with Mr Entwhistle, to avoid disturbing the other guests at such a terrible time.”
Auguste’s first reaction had been relief, whatever subterfuge His Majesty had adopted. Then fear began to replace it.
“Where’s Gregorin?” he cried. “Egbert, this is some plot, just as I said.”
He almost screamed, as a hand tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and a familiar voice of Thomas Entwhistle asked pleasantly, “Who, Mr Didier?”
Chapter Six
“Does that not convince you, my doubting friend?” Auguste watched Egbert anxiously. In this elegant morning room, with the obligatory oil paintings of dead stags and hunting scenes, he felt uncomfortably as though he were back in Stockbery Towers once again, meeting Egbert for the first time. On that occasion he had been a prime suspect for the murder under investigation, and he hoped the parallel had not occurred to Egbert as well. Had there been a note of genuine doubt in his jest that Auguste might have shot Montfoy himself under the impression it was Gregorin? If so, the sooner this Gregorin matter was settled, the better.
Egbert laid down The Times on the Wednesday morning. At Auguste’s request he had just read the interesting news item that during his private visit to Paris, His Majesty had visited Madame de Stael on the previous morning at 11.30 a.m., a time when His Majesty was in fact still digesting his breakfast in England.
“Convince me of what, Auguste?”
“Madame de Stael is a former ambassador to the Tsar of Russia.” The Dizzy Duchess had clearly seen in her another rival for she had made a point of showing Auguste the article earlier that morning.
“So The Times mentions. It also mentions that no political conclusions can be drawn from the visit.”
Auguste snorted. Why must Egbert be so blind? “Everything to do with France and England has a political significance, Egbert — otherwise why does The Times bother to comment on it?”
“I don’t follow your drift.”
Auguste tried to keep his patience. “His Majesty could not possibly have reached Paris by eleven thirty. Therefore it is plain that Madame de Stael has agreed to someone’s request to conceal his absence. That could perhaps be His Majesty himself, but if not, and remembering the lady’s earlier connections with Russia, who is the more likely: an English gentleman called Entwhistle or a Russian called Gregorin?”
“Forget about Gregorin, Auguste.” Egbert’s voice was sharp. “I’ve a murder to solve here, and at the moment you’re off chasing butterflies. I may want your help, but I don’t need it. Clear?”
“Very well, Egbert.” Auguste was bitterly hurt. “Nevertheless, as someone you’ve been good enough to admit has been right in the past, can I ask you whether you think there is any possibility that there is a link between Montfoy’s murder and his host? Do you not think it at all strange that Mr Entwhistle should be quite so generous towards his friend in lending him his house and his servants?”
“Where His Majesty’s involved, I’ve noticed quite a lot of people tend to act in odd ways. Including me. Including you. And I daresay including even Mr Entwhistle.”
Auguste was silenced.
“I’ll bear it in mind though,” Egbert added, just as Detective Sergeant Lyme entered, now even more unnerved by this case — Scotland Yard was on one side, the aristocracy hounded him on the other, most of them demanding permission to leave. Some had been granted it, but others not.
“Lord Montfoy to see you, sir.”
“What?” The word was out before Egbert realised his mistake.
Gerald gave a careless laugh, as he came into the room behind Lyme. “Don’t worry, Chief Inspector. I haven’t quite got used to the name myself.” He injected a slight apology into his voice. “Doesn’t seem right, not till the dear old fellow is buried, and Horace informs me that can’t be until after the inquest tomorrow.”
Egbert did not comment, a gambit that he often employed.
“So I thought I’d come to see you, before you came to see me,” Gerald added less certainly.
“What about, Lord Montfoy?”
“The necklace.”
“Ah.”
“The one valuable Montfoy heirloom we have left.” Gerald ignored Egbert’s lack of surprise. “Diamonds, given to the tenth earl well over a hundred years ago by some grateful natives out in India.” Given was not strictly accurate, but sounded rather better than ‘extracted from a local Maharajah as a bribe’. “It was stolen from my cousin Belinda’s room on Sunday.”
“Why didn’t she report it?”
“Because I told her who was responsible. It was Arthur.”
“It’s hardly a theft if her brother took it, is it?”
“Arthur was seen leaving her room, Belinda wasn’t in it at the time, and says she didn’t give her permission for its removal — and now it seems to have vanished. That’s theft.” Gerald displayed all injured innocence. “I expect he gave it to Gertrude.”
“Very good of you to notify us, Lord Montfoy, but Lady Montfoy denies having it.”
Gerald was deflated. “I thought it might have some reference to his death. Gertrude’s maid, Mademoiselle Jeanne Planchet told me about it.”
“Why did she do that?”
Gerald looked becomingly modest. “She and I are — well — on good terms. In fact such good terms that in case you might be wondering where I was at midnight on Monday, she would be able to tell you. And I was not dancing round the maypole with poor Arthur.”
Egbert left him to spell it out. “Where was that then?”
“A gentleman should not specify precisely … ”
“You can tell us, Lord Montfoy.” The neutrality in Egbert’s voice took the insult out, but Auguste knew him well enough to know that he had taken an aversion to
the new Lord Montfoy.
“In bed.”
Egbert ostentatiously wrote this down in his notes. “Would you say you had any reason to kill Lord Montfoy, even though you say can prove it was impossible for you to have done so?”
Gerald promptly looked virtuous. “Absolutely none. I’ve inherited a title, but no money. What would be the use of killing for that?”
“Anger? To acquire money from a sympathetic sister-in-law?”
Gerald was greatly injured. “That,” he announced, “is not the sort of thing the Montfoys do.” Even he seemed to think this fell short of the truth, for he left hastily.
Egbert studied his notes. “Lady Montfoy claimed her maid could give her an alibi.”
“She only said, if I recall, that the maid saw her. Not when. Or if she was there all night.”
“So she did. Glad to see Gregorin isn’t entirely addling your brains.”
“They can still produce the occasional good egg,” Auguste managed to reply humbly.
“Either way, it will be interesting to have another word with her ladyship. If she doesn’t have the necklace — who does — and does it matter?”
“It could matter very much if Arthur Montfoy was giving gifts to another woman.”
“Perhaps he wanted to pawn it?”
“That seems all too likely. In which case it probably still has to be in the house. I suppose we’d better search Farthing Court as well as the Dower House. The Commissioner will be only too pleased, I’m sure. It has to be done, though.”
“I’m sure Mr Entwhistle will be most obliging.”
“Glad somebody is.” Rose idly flicked through his notes. “What do you make of Bluebell Pennyfather?”
“A highly intelligent young lady, obviously devoted to her sister. It seems odd to me that she was so eager to tell the company that Arthur Montfoy would be down at the maypole at midnight. How did she know for sure or was she guessing her sister would talk him into it?”
“Arthur must have told her himself. What matters is which of these people decided to end their evening with a trip to the bottom of the garden to see the fairies.”
Auguste was still following his own thoughts. “But why was Bluebell so interested in Herne the Hunter?”
