by Amy Myers
“She’s at a romantic age.”
“Yes,” Auguste agreed, “but what is romance for her? Perhaps it isn’t fairies, but her sister’s romantic affairs.” Egbert seized on this. “Mr Richard Waites,” he said meditatively. “I suppose we’d better ask him where he was at midnight.”
*
In search of Jeanne Planchet, they found Gertrude in her room as well, now looking more strained, Auguste thought. “Perhaps a cup of camomile tea … ” he suggested sympathetically.
“Thank you, Mr Didier. But no. It’s merely the worry of the whole situation.”
“Of course.”
She smiled slightly. “Not just Arthur’s death. It’s being here — as an enforced guest of Mr Entwhistle’s.”
“That I do understand,” Auguste agreed all too well.
“He was so generous to Arthur; it seems too bad to have to extend the same generosity to me, my family, and those guests whom I gather you’ve asked should remain.”
“Murder makes few friends,” Egbert commented.
“Just at the moment,” Gertrude said, “I’ve had enough of quaint old English legends and traditions. I guess I’ll come back to it. What is it you want, Inspector?”
“To see your maid, Jeanne.”
“Oh.” Gertrude seemed taken aback, and somewhat reluctantly summoned Jeanne in from the dressing room, where she had been using the flat iron. Or should have been. In fact she had been listening at the door. Jeanne was not at all happy, for she had made a terrible discovery last evening. Her American money had disappeared from beneath her mattress, and she was furious; she knew very well who had taken it, and she intended to get her revenge. Fear had given way to anger.
“Miss Planchet, isn’t it?” Egbert summed her up quickly, and to her surprise did not question her about Lord Montfoy and the necklace. “You seem to be a most popular young lady. Not only Lady Montfoy, but the new Lord Montfoy claim that you can give them an alibi for Monday night.”
“Quoi?” Now her American money had vanished, Jeanne needed Milady Montfoy more than a penniless English milord. At present, anyway. She opened dark indignant eyes widely. “How can he insult me so? Of course I was with my mistress, monsieur.”
“In the same room?”
She hesitated. “In the dressing room. I heard heavy breathing — very heavy.”
“I was snoring?” Gertrude was stony-faced.
“Oui, madame. All night.”
*
Lady Belinda was in the library, standing on the steps and searching amongst the bound copies of the Gentleman’s Magazine from the eighteenth century. She was entirely clad in black and unlike some of the ladies had not bothered with any tiny relieving touches of grey. Not even a brooch enlivened the expanse of black, and her pale face looked sallow against it.
She closed the volume when she saw Egbert and Auguste and reluctantly descended the steps, indicating to them that they could be seated. “Forgive me, Inspector, it is rarely that I have an opportunity to consult this library so regularly. Mr Entwhistle is most generous, but I am reluctant to take advantage too often of his kind invitation to me to consult it whenever I wish. I recalled there was a reference in a volume of 1792 to prehistoric drawings found in flintstones at Margate, and pursuing my theory that the well-known shell grotto at Margate discovered last century is not an eighteenth-century folly but a prehistoric temple founded by Phoenicians, linking up with art forms in Egypt and Crete, I naturally wish to gather all the supporting evidence I can.”
Egbert was taken aback, recalling the jolly visit he and Edith had paid to the grotto, after which Edith had been so enthusiastic about shell-lined walls she spent the remainder of the holiday with her eyes permanently fixed on the beach, and a large reticule at her side into which she surreptitiously popped her trophies. Edith hadn’t said a word to him about prehistoric Phoenicians.
“I take it you’ve no news of your necklace, madam?” Belinda flushed in annoyance. “I suppose Cousin Gerald has been talking.”
“He told me your brother had removed the necklace. You confirm that?”
“Yes, but I was not able to confirm it with Arthur. It hardly seemed a suitable subject for his wedding day. Nor, for the same reason, could I approach Gertrude.”
“She denies having it.”
“In her place, I might too.”
“What were your views about your brother’s masquerade of still being the owner of Farthing Court?”
“Strong disapproval, but I could not betray him. I respect Gertrude, and disliked her being deceived by Arthur. However, he refused to risk telling her the true state of his affairs — and see what has happened.”
“You think his death was linked to it, then?” Rose asked mildly.
Belinda opened her mouth and shut it again.
“Can I ask where you were at midnight, Lady Belinda?”
“In bed. And before you ask, I have no maid of my own who could confirm my presence there. Equally no one could prove my presence elsewhere.”
*
“She has some sort of motive, though,” Egbert commented, once they were back in his temporary headquarters. He suddenly pushed back his chair, marched over and turned an oil painting of a particularly dead stag to the wall. “Doesn’t seem decent to me in the circumstances,” he muttered.
“Only if you agree that Lady Belinda was so furious with her brother she took the opportunity to shoot an arrow through him when he was helpless.”
“But how did he come to be helpless? That to me still seems the crucial question.”
“Good morning, sir.” Inspector Stitch’s face fell as he bounded eagerly into the room only to find Auguste Didier in full spate. He was well aware of Auguste’s presence at Farthing Court but Twitch (as he was privately dubbed by Rose) had nursed a vain hope that on this occasion Didier would once again be top of the suspect list, since he was clearly trying to pervert the cause of justice with all this nonsense about the owner of Farthing Court being a Russian spy in disguise.
“Ah, Stitch. There you are at last. Join Naseby and his team in the house search, will you? A diamond necklace is what we’re looking for. Here it is.” Egbert led the way to the entrance hall where Belinda had pointed out an oil painting of her mother wearing the necklace. It was the only object of interest in a highly gloomy picture, in Auguste’s view. The lady’s ample girth, in full, purple evening dress, had been painted with one hand resting on her late husband’s memorial stone, rather like the famous picture of her late Majesty Queen Victoria, though the latter at least was wearing her widow’s weeds.
Auguste would be the last to deny Stitch’s value in tasks demanding such painstaking care as a house search. Particularly of this one, where the remaining guests querulously questioned the need for them to vacate their rooms, while still clad in their walking instead of their luncheon dress. That they did so at all was thanks to Thomas (Auguste grudgingly admitted) who tactfully suggested the quicker the unfortunate matter of Arthur’s death was cleared up the better, no matter at what sartorial cost. Auguste quickly built on this position by suggesting that several bottles of champagne should be taken to the dining ante-room, since this was a well-known medicinal remedy for shock, and that luncheon could then be immediately taken. He himself would see to it.
He hurried to the kitchen, still unbelieving of his good fortune in that instead of the usual waves of hostility from the resident staff, he could look forward to instant co-operation.
All eyes were on him as he came in. “Luncheon, Mr Perkins. Is it possible to advance it by one hour at Scotland Yard’s request?”
Ethelred Perkins blenched only for one moment. “Certainly, Mr Didier. It will mean slightly narrowing the choices on the menu. The filet de boeuf rôti must be set aside, and the gigot. The pommes de terre soufflés may also prove a problem. However, in order that we may retain a choice of six plats for each course, we could substitute gratin dauphinois and perhaps a hot dish of ham in Madeira sauce might be
acceptable — as a last resort menu in such circumstances.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Auguste would agree to anything at the moment, though at another time he might have queried the substitution of another fish dish instead of a gigot.
Underchefs flew to their stations, kitchenmaids rushed to the stillroom, and it was left to the butler’s boy, stopped in his usual tracks, to ask plaintively, “What about servants’ dinner?”
Auguste was aghast at his having forgotten all about it. Servants’ dinner was sacrosanct. Not even a plea from Scotland Yard could change that. Servants’ dinner was at twelve; the upper house’s luncheon followed at one. It had done so for centuries and would continue to do so. The kitchen stopped as the entire staff waited to see whether the stars would stop in their courses, as servants’ dinner changed its time.
“Servants’ dinner will be at one thirty today.” A gasp of horror ran round the kitchens, while Ethelred held up his hand. “Today, its menu will include filet de boeufs rôti, pommes de terre soufflés, gigot d’agneau.”
All opposition was stilled.
In his relief, it was only after Auguste had left to accompany Mr Tudor bearing the champagne to the ante-room that he realised what had been overlooked. At some point Mr Ethelred Perkins’ kitchen, Mrs Honey’s stillroom and laundry room, and Mr Tudor’s cellars must be searched.
He decided he would prefer not to be present.
*
Farthing Court already bore traces of disruption. As Auguste went upstairs, curious to see how Stitch was progressing, he passed housemaids dismayed at being seen in their print gowns after twelve o’clock, piles of linen removed from Mrs Honey’s closets, and more housemaids turned out of bedrooms in the midst of their cleaning. An irresistible idea came to him, as he caught up with Stitch, whose opening words were, “I can manage without you, thank you, sir.”
“Of course. I wondered, however,” Auguste asked anxiously, “if you had considered the dirty laundry — so many guests left yesterday and this morning. It would make an excellent, if temporary, hiding place, would it not?”
Stitch glared at him, and Auguste immediately summoned Mrs Honey to lead Stitch to the huge collection of linen and towels assembled by the housemaids in the laundry closet ready for despatch to the laundry. Quietly he slipped away, well satisfied. After all, it was time for luncheon, and today Auguste decided he should dine as a gentleman.
In the relative informality of this meal, he managed to sit at Eleonore’s side, even though this meant facing Louisa’s disapproving eye, not to mention her neighbour, Thomas, alias Pyotr Gregorin, with whom she appeared to be in deep conversation.
“Farthing Court is not the same without His Majesty,” Eleonore remarked gloomily.
“No,” Auguste agreed, though not for the same reasons.
“Such a charming gentleman.”
“Could you not have left with him?” Auguste asked somewhat crossly.
Eleonore laughed. “My dear Auguste, I am a married lady.”
“And I a married man,” he muttered, wondering whether by any chance he had mistaken her invitation to him.
“However, I do live in Paris,” Eleonore ignored Auguste’s wedded state, “and as His Majesty is a great admirer of our city, I have little doubt that we shall meet again. In any case, I must stay for Arthur’s funeral, and the good Inspector Naseby has told us that, in any case, we cannot leave before the inquest, because we knew that poor Arthur was likely to go to the maypole at midnight. I am a suspect,” she added almost proudly.
“You were a friend of Arthur Montfoy?”
“No. Of Gertrude, whom I met in Paris.”
Gertrude, reluctantly joining the company, sat flanked by Pennyfathers and Harvey Bolland at one end of the table. She caught Eleonore’s eye and smiled in acknowledgement, but her crab soufflé did not seem to be receiving the same attention, Auguste noticed.
“She shows great fortitude in the face of a double shock,” he observed.
“Double?” Eleonore repeated. “Ah, the money! Yes, Arthur was really very naughty. It seems terrible to say so, but I never thought him worthy of her. Auguste,” she added, “I know you are fond of His Majesty — ”
This was more than Auguste knew, but cautious acquiescence seemed the right attitude.
“I am concerned for him,” she continued. “Politically.” She suppressed a laugh in case Auguste could mistake her meaning.
“I don’t think you need worry about that.” Auguste knew he was being churlish, but found to his horror that he still felt distinctly jealous of being ousted by Cousin Bertie. Moreover, he was aware that Gregorin had very sharp hearing.
“Ah, but there are many interests at stake. Many believe the safety of Europe is balanced on a knife edge ever since the Kaiser’s rash intervention in the Morocco question. Believe me, Auguste, as I tried to tell His Majesty, the Kaiser will stop at nothing to break up the alliance between England and France for which His Majesty has worked so hard.”
Chiefly at the Folies Bergère and the Restaurant Voisin, Auguste thought irreverently, but all he said was, “He won’t succeed, surely?”
“That we still have to see. Delcassé’s position is still threatened.”
“But I read that the French parliament is standing by him,” Auguste said idly. For a while it had indeed looked as though the French Foreign Minister would be forced to resign — which would greatly please the Kaiser — or rather his éminence grise Von Holstein — since it was Delcassé who was doing his best to further international acceptance of French influence in Morocco.
“His position is still tenuous. The Kaiser wants him forced from office, and then he will achieve what he wants.”
“Morocco?”
“No. Morocco is a pawn in the game between Germany and France. The Kaiser is intent on breaking the alliance between England and France and what better way to do so than force France to go to war over an issue on which England will not feel strongly enough to stand by her. And if France will not fight over it either, he will get his way by demanding an international conference, to diminish France in the eyes of England and Russia, his new friend.”
“You are a diplomat, Eleonore.” He was impressed.
She shrugged. “I only know what my husband tells me.”
Aware of Gregorin, despite the fact he appeared only to be interested in Louisa, Auguste tried to whisper. “But Russia has enough on its hands with its war with Japan. Nothing but disaster after disaster, and still it refuses to negotiate.”
“Ah. Now there is some hope. Perhaps our host has mentioned to you that he is to hold a reception in Paris shortly, which he expects His Majesty will attend. There he will meet President Roosevelt’s personal envoy. Perhaps you have heard that President Roosevelt feels that America should enter upon the world stage as a peacemaker?” Eleonore broke off. “You seem surprised, Mr Didier, that our host moves in the highest circles.”
“You know him in Paris?” August whispered.
“Not well, but I have met him.”
“Do you also know a man called Gregorin?”
She thought for a moment. “I do not think so. Why?” Auguste decided discretion was best, and reverted to her original comment hastily. “Why are you worried about His Majesty?”
“My husband tells me that there are those who would not hesitate to discredit the king in any way possible at this delicate time for international relations.”
“The Kaiser?”
“Not necessarily, Auguste. Shall we say those with a grudge against His Majesty, especially if they can maintain their anonymity?”
Louisa leaned forward. “My dear Eleonore,” she said warmly, “I gather we are to meet later this month in Paris. Thomas has just been kind enough to invite me to his reception for His Majesty and the American envoy.”
At her side Gregorin looked blandly at Auguste.
“And yourself also, Mr Didier. You would be most welcome.”
*
“None of these is mine, Inspector.” Belinda looked at the collection of jewellery produced for her inspection by Stitch, of which few bore much resemblance to the necklace in the painting.
“Are you sure, miss?” In his disappointment Stitch clean forgot about the ‘ladyship’.
“I am quite sure I know the difference between diamonds, glass and crystal,” she declared somewhat tartly. “And now, Inspector, no doubt you will wish to search the Dower House, although it’s hard to see just what motive I could have had for pretending my necklace had been taken in order to blame my brother.”
“I’m sure I’d find your job in Egyptian mummies just as hard to understand.” Stitch indulged in a rare fit of repartee.
“Touché, Inspector. However, someone did steal my necklace and it must be in the house — or the Dower House — since it seems highly unlikely anyone would choose to break in from outside when the house was full of detectives this weekend.”
“Unless it’s the Hindoos,” Stitch leapt in eagerly and unwisely, being fond of reading tales of derring-do about stolen holy jewels to the younger Stitches.
“I don’t have a lot of faith in Special Branch, Stitch,” his superior informed him, “but I think they’d have noticed if a band of Hindoos came marching up the drive to Farthing Court to reclaim their lost property. What do you think, Auguste?”
Auguste jumped. He had been miles away — in Paris, in fact, locked in mortal combat with Pyotr Gregorin. Eager as he was to put as much distance as he could between himself and Farthing Court, when Egbert ordered a search of the kitchens, a certain wistfulness overcame him at abandoning an opportunity to suggest to Twitch that the necklace might well be buried in a large canister of ground white pepper. Should he tell Egbert where he thought the answer to the necklace mystery lay, having given much thought to it? He decided not to, until he knew for sure. Meanwhile Egbert was looking at him expectantly.
“Unless the Hindoos were disguised as smugglers’ ghosts,” he offered feebly.
“Take Inspector Stitch and his team to the kitchens, Auguste,” was Egbert’s only reply.
