Murder with Majesty

by Amy Myers

  He thought rapidly for a way out, and found one. “I fear I cannot. I do not have the authority.”

  “Then who does?”

  “Mr Entwhistle.”

  *

  Richard Waites, striding through the woodland on the Farthing estate, was none too pleased to meet that gangling American Harvey Bolland coming towards him. He wanted to be on his own, so that he could consider the startling events of the last few days, and think about his next move rationally instead of following his first instinct to lay tactful court to Gertrude instantly.

  Harvey bowed briefly, even less pleased to see that prim Englishman in his path, and wishing he could trample over him like he was these wild blue flowers. Then he reconsidered. Might it not be the action of a subtle man to talk to the fellow? There was no sign of Gertrude, and the longer Scotland Yard were in the house the more, it occurred to him, they might think he, Harvey Bolland, had a motive for getting rid of Arthur Montfoy. If he did, then Richard Waites did also, according to Bluebell. He couldn’t seriously believe that this slightly-built serious faced Englishman was a rival for Gertrude, but if he thought he was, then he was, Harvey reasoned. It wouldn’t matter to Richard that there was no chance of Gertrude’s accepting his hand — and with Harvey on offer there was no chance. Bluebell saw that right away. He stopped.

  “Mind if we talk a while?”

  “Not at all.” Years of diplomatic experience suggested to Richard this was the quickest way to get rid of him.

  “Seems to me,” Harvey began carefully, watching a vole scuttle back to its hole, “we’ve a lot in common.”

  “Have we?”

  “Gertrude. She’ll be coming back to the States now.”

  “She’s told you so?”

  “Doesn’t have to. You don’t think old man Pennyfather would let her marry another damned Englishman, do you?” Harvey was irritated.

  “Gertrude is twenty-five.”

  “Not much money of her own, though.”

  It was Richard’s turn to be annoyed. “The British Foreign Office does pay me enough to marry upon.”

  Harvey eyed him thoughtfully. “So you are thinking of it.”

  Richard suddenly grinned, realising he had been guilty of the worst diplomatic crime, that of underestimating his opponent, and put out his hand. “May the best man win.”

  “Sure.” Harvey did the same. He grinned too. “And I’ve got one advantage you don’t have.”

  “America?”

  “Bluebell. She’s taken against you.”

  “I’m terrified.”

  “You’d be right to be,” Harvey replied seriously. “Bluebell doesn’t believe in fighting fair, only hard, and she’s getting mighty pally with that Scotland Yard fellow.”

  There was a pause. “She can’t prove anything,” Richard said at last.

  “The trouble with Bluebell is,” Harvey informed him gloomily, “that her being on your side can be worse than her not being on your side.”

  Another pause. “She still can’t prove anything.”

  Harvey looked at him. “Did Entwhistle invite you over to that reception of his in Gay Paree in three weeks’ time?”

  “He did; as a diplomat he thought I’d like to be there.”

  “I’m going because the Pennyfathers are going.”

  Richard was startled. “Not Gertrude surely?”

  “Yes. It’s Horace’s doing. Entwhistle told him about that king of yours and the American envoy being there, and Horace seems to think he ought to lend support. He’s got political ambitions, has Horace, and he’s an old hunting pal of Roosevelt’s.”

  “But Gertrude — ”

  “Because of the bereavement, she and Bluebell will disappear well before the dancing begins. I’ll escort her, of course.”

  “Don’t bother. I will.”

  “You’re a diplomat. You can’t leave if the king is present.” Harvey seemed amused.

  “Look,” Richard tried to control himself, “Gertrude will be in mourning for a year.”

  “In the States, six months deepest mourning — and then — ”

  “Six months,” Richard said angrily. “We’ll both agree not to approach her within six months, and not to ask for a public declaration for a year after that.”

  Harvey thought. “It’s a deal. Unless, of course,” he added offhandedly, “one of us is removed from the scene for any reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “Murder, I guess I meant.”

  “I’ve no intention of being murdered, and the only person I feel like murdering at present is you,” Richard assured him.

  “I must have meant Arthur Montfoy’s murder, Dick.” Harvey sauntered off, well pleased.

  “And don’t call me Dick!” His Majesty’s diplomat, highly regarded for his calm, yelled after him.

  *

  Auguste walked along the footpath to Frimhurst village. It was a quiet footpath, passing through meadows where only sheep and cows took any notice of him, and only a frisky bullock distracted him from his main concern — which was not the murder, but the terrifying prospect before him. Having bypassed the bullock, he was free to try to think. All that kept nagging at him was the conviction that there was no way whatsoever that he was going to be a guest under Entwhistle/Gregorin’s roof again, whether it be in the Avenue van Dyck or the Place Vendôme. Not Eleonore, not His Majesty, not even Tatiana could drag him there. Egbert might not be much of a help here, but in Paris he would be even less of a help.

  That decision made, he felt better and prepared to soothe his conscience by devoting the afternoon to following up a theory of his own. The footpath was disappearing into woodland, and he had to suppress a slight fear that hobgoblins, even on this bright day, might be lying in wait for him. He would return to Farthing Court well before dusk, he decided. He made a supreme effort to take his mind off the woodlands around him, whose trees seemed to be eyeing him speculatively, weighing up his possibilities as their next victim.

  “I am making an aioli,” he diverted his imagination furiously. “Concentration is everything. Drop by drop the oil must be added, the temperature is all important … ” In such a way he escaped the perils around him, and arrived safe from hobgoblins at Frimhurst village.

  It seemed sullen and suspicious, however, for here too there was a feeling of tense waiting — natural enough, he tried to convince himself, with the inquest and funeral still to come. Some of the coroner’s jurors would be drawn from the village, and whatever their opinions of their late lord, the Montfoys had led the village for centuries.

  Most signs of May Day jollity had been removed. Some curtains were drawn, the flag on the church steeple was at half mast. The formerly merry village girls had sprouted black bows and aprons and, at the very least armbands adorned each masculine arm. Not that there were many villagers to be seen. A few people emerging from shops and houses took one look at Auguste and changed their minds. Auguste glanced curiously at the thatched roof of the pub, a corner of which had escaped from its concealed bands, and was flapping in the wind, as he went into the post office.

  “Where may I find Mrs Aggie Potter?” he enquired of the postmaster.

  “At home.”

  A young postman come to collect his afternoon delivery sack shot Auguste a nervous glance and disappeared into the back regions.

  “Shall I inform Chief Inspector Rose of Scotland Yard that she is keeping her address secret?” Auguste asked amiably.

  The licking of a halfpenny stamp to place upon a postcard received from the hands of his predecessor in the queue seemed to take an extraordinarily long time.

  “Primrose Cottage.” It was a reluctant growl, but all Auguste needed. Murmuring his overwhelming thanks, he left, having purchased half a pound of jelly babies for his hostess-to-be.

  The sweets appeared more welcome than he did, when he arrived at Primrose Cottage, and he sat in the ancient armchair while she noisily sucked at first a green, than a red offering.


  “Your granddaughter Jenny is an excellent worker.”

  A loud suck agreed with him.

  “And very impressionable.”

  Not such a loud suck.

  “Why do you fill her head with legends and superstitions and tell her they are true?”

  Aggie delicately removed the remains of a red baby from her mouth and prepared to speak.

  “The fairies will not be mocked,” she intoned, sitting back to see what effect this might have.

  “Nor will Scotland Yard.”

  The cannibalised jelly baby was replaced.

  “Nor the Cranbrook Police.”

  Aggie nearly choked in her haste. Cranbrook was near at hand whereas Scotland Yard meant little. “’Tis all true, mister.”

  “I think not.” He reached out and gently removed the jelly babies.

  “Nearly true,” she amended, eyeing her lost booty. “You all knew that Lord Montfoy had sold Farthing Court?”

  “Yes. Ain’t our business though what the manor does. They be gentlefolk, so dey be entitled to be crazy-mazed.”

  “So you knew he was no longer lord of the manor, yet the village does all this for him. Why?”

  “I be old now. I don’t rightly know, mister.” She grinned, and snatched the bag back in triumph.

  “Come now, you’re the village wise woman — everyone says so.”

  “I just tell folk what I remembers.”

  “About may being taken into the house bringing good luck?”

  “Ah well, I might not have remembered that right,” she conceded. “Brought bad luck, didn’t it?”

  “It did indeed,” Auguste said pointedly.

  “I just did it to welcome Lady Montfoy,” Aggie choked piteously.

  “You must be a very good-hearted village.”

  “Yus.”

  “Now tell me whether you made up the legend of the Montfoy wedding and Herne the Hunter.”

  Aggie looked cross. “Dat’s Jacob’s job.”

  “Job?” Was he getting somewhere? “Jacob who?”

  “Mus Jacob Meadows, and I don’t want you a-bothering him, I don’t.”

  “Then tell me who I can bother. Whose idea was it to think up a legend? Alf Spade?”

  She snorted. “No.”

  “Who then?”

  When she did not reply, he said gently, “Mrs Potter, you don’t want to be suspected of murdering Lord Montfoy yourself, do you?”

  Still no reply, but he had her attention at least.

  “It’s said that you have a grudge against the Montfoys.”

  “So’s everyone,” she snorted. “You’d best see Mus Wickman at White Dragon.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Potter — and just to cover everything: where were you at midnight on Monday?”

  She cackled. “In the bed the Good Lord sent me.”

  “And no doubt Jacob Meadows would say the same,” August said resignedly.

  “No, he wouldn’t, cos he were in mine.” She looked pleased when she saw Auguste’s flabbergasted face. “You young folk don’t know what life’s all about.” She crammed two jelly babies into her mouth. “Keeps the fairies away, don’t it?”

  Auguste tried to refocus his thoughts on Herne the Hunter, though it was difficult. It was even tempting to think that Mrs Aggie Potter was quite astute enough to have introduced this interesting alibi to distract him from her own involvement in any conspiracy to murder Lord Montfoy. The problem with a conspiracy theory was that though there might be individual motives for villagers to have hated Arthur Montfoy, there was no discernible reason that he could see for the whole village to have a collective motive. (Now if it had been Squire Entwhistle they hankered to murder … )

  And yet he was almost sure there was a conspiracy of some sort. He had come across quite a lot of English villages, not to mention French ones, and experience taught him two things: firstly sweetness and light, whether May Day or not, were not an atmosphere that prevailed for very long, and secondly, villages only acted in complete unity when something serious threatened their collective existence.

  Even the rector was part of a conspiracy, though his was the conspiracy to murder him, Auguste Didier. Or was it? Had he iced the cake before baking it, and in his preoccupation with Gregorin jumped to an unwarranted conclusion? But the name Entwhistle had been mentioned, hadn’t it? Auguste frowned at elusive memory, as he arrived at the front door of the White Dragon.

  He glanced up at the creaking inn sign, not faded and weathered like most inn signs, but bright and newly painted, and carrying the Montfoy arms. And then he began to see light. This pub was rented; it was still part of the Montfoy estate. No wonder Bert Wickman was so anxious to give the new bride such a welcome. No, that couldn’t be right either, for the Montfoys were no longer his landlord. Entwhistle was!

  He changed his mind about entering the pub and sauntered down to the small river that trickled past the back of a nearby row of cottages, and continued through the White Dragon’s garden. A whole new idea occurred to him … Had Entwhistle’s generosity to Arthur Montfoy in loaning him the house been extended to ‘persuading’ the village to please his bride with a suitable array of, among other things, ancient legends and superstitions, whether true or false? Could this have been to suit his own purpose: that Arthur Montfoy and not Auguste Didier was to be the turtle slaughtered for his soup?

  Auguste turned this over in his mind, though still not under any illusion that Gregorin would have forgotten his delightful promise of premature death to him. Perhaps, however, Auguste had merely proved a fly in the turtle soup in Gregorin’s more immediate plans to kill Arthur Montfoy.

  Why? He decided he did not know enough about their relationship to answer this question, but a most unwelcome idea came to him. Cousin Bertie. Arthur Montfoy was a friend of His Majesty’s before Thomas Entwhistle came on the scene. Did Montfoy know something about Entwhistle that should not, in the latter’s view, reach His Majesty’s ears? Yes. He had discovered Entwhistle was Gregorin. Perhaps he was only holding his peace until his wedding was safely over.

  Flushed with pride at his detective prowess, he marched up to the White Dragon and found it closed. He walked round to the back of the building, and there found Bessie Wickman involved in mangling the weekly wash, postponed from its usual Monday timetable.

  “He’s not here,” she said promptly, recognising Auguste and heading off trouble.

  “Perhaps you could help me, Mrs Wickman.”

  “You could turn this dratted mangle.”

  Normally, Auguste’s gallantry towards a still highly attractive woman would have propelled him rapidly into agreement. Not on this occasion.

  “Or perhaps you could abandon your washing and talk to me — instead of the police?”

  “What about?” Her voice was sharp, but she promptly dropped the mangle arm. He also noticed her voice acquired a certain seductiveness as she said, “You’d best come inside, mister.”

  He followed her swaying body into the rear of the public house, averting his eyes from the kitchens, whose state confirmed the provenance of the terrible pies he had seen on offer in the bar. He knew that the best of succulent fare could come from a village range, and the worst from a highly sought-after Paris chef, but he had few doubts about this one. Bessie was more interested in her own charms than in those of what might charm the palate, and he remembered the rumours he had heard about her association with the late Lord Montfoy.

  “I want to know whose job it was to make the Herne the Hunter legend about crowning Lord Montfoy’s head come true.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “In that case I’ll wait till your husband returns and ask him.”

  “You can’t. He doesn’t know.”

  “But you do?”

  “Only because there’s nothing to know,” she flung at him.

  “There I disagree, madame. The village conspires to produce among other things an entirely false legend about the Montfoy fam
ily, as a result of which his lordship is found dead.”

  Bessie decided on wheedling. “An honest gentleman like you wouldn’t tell her new ladyship a lot of it was made up. His lordship wouldn’t like it.”

  “The present Lord Montfoy?”

  “No, squire. He be lord of the manor.”

  “It won’t be up to me. The inquest is tomorrow morning.”

  “They won’t be asking that, will they?”

  “Why not?”

  “Bert’s on the jury. Half of them are from the village.”

  “But they’re interested parties.” Auguste was aghast. “The coroner should be told.”

  “He’s a pal of Bert's.”

  “He still has to ask the right questions. I’d remind you, Mrs Wickman, that it’s no ordinary inquest — Scotland Yard, the Chief Constable, the Cranbrook Police, to mention but three important bodies will be present.”

  “Makes no difference,” Bessie said smugly.

  Auguste tried again, and this time more boldly, since he had nothing to lose. “There’s no reason the coroner should ask questions about everything the village organised to please Lady Montfoy, but he’s certainly going to want to know about that deer’s head and the Herne legend. I think you were there, weren’t you? You were furious, not so much that Lord Montfoy was marrying, but that he abandoned you so easily. You wanted to make him look ridiculous, didn’t you? So you appointed yourself guardian of the legend — which I’ve little doubt you helped Jacob invent.”

  “No, I didn’t.” she interrupted fiercely.

  “Then you took advantage of it. You informed him he should be tied to the pole, then you placed the deer’s antlers over his head.”

  “Not me,” she shouted.

  “Suppose we have a witness.”

  “You can’t have. There was no one there but us two and — ” Bessie broke off with a most unfairylike comment on her own stupidity.

  “What about Bluebell? She knew of your plans, didn’t she?” How else, he had reasoned, could she know about Arthur Montfoy’s intention to visit the maypole that night? He would hardly have confided in her, and nor would Gertrude. Once he had discovered that Bluebell attended Bessie’s dabbling party, the solution emerged like a soufflé from the oven, cooked for exactly the right period of time.