Murder with Majesty

by Amy Myers

  “Look, Auguste, you’re prejudiced,” Egbert said kindly enough. “Perhaps she only thought of killing Montfoy on the spur of the moment. Perhaps they had an argument. She’s admitted their appointment was eleven thirty, not at twelve as everyone else was told. Evidence and facts, Auguste. What matters is the quality of the meat, not the way you cook it.”

  Auguste disagreed. Cooking was important. “We’ve proof that someone else did go down there.”

  “We’ve no proof who it was. Bluebell might have been mistaken. Badgers are large creatures. Old Herne, perhaps. Everyone claims to have been in their beds — ”

  “Or someone else’s,” Auguste said savagely. “Even His Majesty can claim that alibi.”

  “You’re never going to convince me that the King took a midnight stroll to see if Herne the Hunter was out, and then decided to play Robin Hood with a bow and arrow.” Auguste surrendered. “You’re right. Your theory fits the facts, it fits everything.”

  “Except for your nose, perhaps?”

  “You may laugh at it, but my nose — ”

  “Keep your nose for Paris, Auguste.”

  Last evening, Auguste had consulted Egbert about Gregorin’s implied command to him to cook for the reception. Egbert had been on the whole sympathetic, but had pointed out that he would be in an excellent position to settle once and for all whether Entwhistle was Gregorin. It had been three years since Auguste had last seen Gregorin, and that was only a passing glimpse; it was five years since he had been face to face with him, and over a period of time memories could play tricks.

  “It doesn’t worry you that he has inveigled me under his roof once more?” Auguste had asked a little sadly-

  “If I thought Entwhistle was Gregorin, yes, it would.”

  “Would you not even try to come over yourself?”

  “Special Branch wouldn’t like that.”

  “Even if you were on holiday.”

  Egbert had wavered. “I’d like to — but what use would I be? I can’t stay at your side all the time, because if I were on holiday I couldn’t stay under Entwhistle’s roof. I’ll ask Chesnais to keep a watch on you. If you’re really worried, why don’t you invent some excellent reason why you can’t go? It’s all very well saying that the King might be in danger politically, but there’s nothing you could do to prevent it, even if it were true.”

  Auguste began to feel heartened. “What excuse could I give His Majesty?”

  “Tell him Tatiana’s ill.”

  “Egbert, that is magnifique.” Tatiana would be home by then, and would most certainly insist he went nowhere near Gregorin.

  The funeral was an awkward occasion. The newspapermen had stayed on, partly in the hope of noting the widow’s demeanour under her thin black veil. They then repaired to the White Dragon where Bert, torn between his personal horror and commerce, decided he could do more good for Bessie by announcing the iniquity of her arrest to the world than by closing the shutters. Now that his worst suspicions had been so dramatically confirmed, he felt almost fond of Bessie again and managed to convince himself of the truth of his words.

  “Them Montfoys always were crafty,” he informed press and villagers alike. “He wanted to seduce my Bessie, he did, so he lured her down to the old maypole, and tried to have his way with her. Only she were stronger than him, so she tied him up and left him there.”

  “Who do you think really murdered him, Mr Wickman? Old Herne the Hunter?” came the first eager question.

  Bert paused, thinking his way through this one.

  “’Tis a powerful old legend in the village,” he informed them, “but old Herne never be known to kill with bow and arrow before. No, I reckon ’twas — ” his audience waited expectantly, as he paused impressively — “One of dem foreigners.”

  “The widow?” one asked hopefully.

  “Could be. I’m not saying, mind. Just one of them as don’t know our ways.” A dim recollection of squire asking him something about whether a foreigner had been asking questions came back to him. “That chef, maybe. The Frenchie.”

  Several notebooks were whisked into play.

  *

  Louisa selected another dainty cucumber sandwich at the funeral tea.

  “Dear Mr Didier, what a comfort it is to know you will be with us in Paris.”

  “Comfort?” Auguste’s conscience pricked him since he had no intention of going. “Indeed I shall enjoy sharing responsibility for the cuisine with Mr Entwhistle’s own excellent chef.”

  “Not for the food, Mr Didier.”

  Auguste was startled. What other comforts had Louisa in mind? With His Majesty so devoted to Eleonore, had she alternative pleasures in mind for herself? He began to edge away, when her next words stopped him, “His Majesty’s comfort.”

  “He could take the Buckingham Palace chefs, of course.”

  “No, no. At this time, this delicate time for international relations, I feel His Majesty might be — shall we say — a little blind to the uses to which unscrupulous persons might put their proximity to him.”

  “Je m’excuse, madame?” Auguste was cautious. Did she speak of Eleonore or of Gregorin?

  Louisa looked cross. “Do I have to explain further?” she hissed. “Your very telephone conversation last Sunday night — which I happened by the merest chance to overhear as I was emerging from an adjacent room — suggests you are as aware as I of the dangers.”

  It was Gregorin then. But what was her interest? Did she hope to restore herself to His Majesty’s good books? From her attention to Horace, he thought her strategy lay in that direction now.

  “I might not go,” he said. “I have family commitments.”

  “You must, Mr Didier. Nothing is more important than England.”

  Auguste slipped away from the gathering, with this thought on his mind, though not convinced of its truth. He reminded himself firstly that he was French, for only half of him had English blood, and secondly that he was extremely important to himself. He had promised to discuss the reception menu with Ethelred this evening after servants’ supper, since he would be leaving early on the morrow, but his conscience troubled him that he was obliged to deceive Ethelred into thinking he would still be going. He told himself that safety and prudence demanded it.

  Ethelred looked up eagerly in the midst of his preparations for this evening’s dinner. “I have spoken to the fishmonger. He can arrange for samphire to be delivered to Paris. He has an arrangement with the Dieppe market.”

  He could cook fish on a bed of samphire! His eyes brightened. Already he could smell the crisp pungent aroma, taste its delicious sharp freshness. How could he give up such an opportunity?

  Yet how could he go?

  The dilemma stared him once again in the face. To cook for the reception was tempting, even without samphire. A Menu d’Unité had been agreed, the tables would be decorated with flowers massed in the colours of the three flags, French, American, British, and dishes from each country would be presented in a choice of soups, fish, removes and entremets. The menu cards would be held aloft by miniature Statues of Liberty, and three ornate meringue flancs — of Versailles, of Windsor Castle and of the White House — would adorn the table. And to think he might not be part of it!

  At the buffet supper late that evening a compromise occurred to him. He would ask Eleonore’s opinion. As the wife of a French diplomat, she would understand the issues involved, since she would — he tried to ignore a slight pang of jealousy — be close to His Majesty.

  He managed to find her alone, engrossed in the choice of cheeses before her.

  “I recommend the Stilton, Eleonore, though perhaps your preference is for Port Salut?”

  “Stilton suits me excellently, thank you, Auguste. I would most certainly take the recommendation of the house here above all places.” She paused. “And in Paris too, I trust? You can arrange that?”

  He could hardly have sought a better opening. He explained at length to her about Entwhistle and
Gregorin while they ate, and she showed instant concern. “You mean, if you are correct and this Entwhistle is Gregorin, His Majesty could be in political danger at this reception.”

  “Yes.”

  “It seems unlikely.” Eleonore pondered. “However, I have never met this Gregorin though I know many Russians in Paris.”

  “Because of his travels he does not lead a life in the public eye.”

  “No. So let us suppose you are right, and that he did try to kill you here, and killed Arthur by mistake. Is that not at odds with his planning a political downfall for His Majesty? Your death would be a distraction and draw attention to his household, which is the last thing he would want with the king present.”

  This was not quite the way Auguste would have put it himself, but he reluctantly agreed with her.

  “After all, Thomas had to change his plans at the last moment, because of the funeral,” Eleonore continued. “The same would have applied if you had died. The same will apply in Paris. If he plans the downfall of the king, then he will not have a murder take place in the house, which could upset the reception.”

  “You are right. Dear Eleonore.” He kissed her cheek, greatly relieved. The samphire could win and he do his duty without overmuch worry. “I will come to Paris.”

  “I want that very much, Auguste.”

  It wasn’t till he climbed into bed and blew out the candle that he realised he had a vague feeling of discontent — and not one caused by his unaccustomed eating of cheese late at night. Could it be because he could spot a flaw in Eleonore’s argument? What if he were wrong about Gregorin plotting the king’s downfall, and his whole intention had been and still was to murder Auguste Didier? Auguste told himself not to be so absurd. These were but night-time fears, and would soon be digested along with his supper.

  *

  “What’s that collection of white turnips over there?” Ethelred craned his neck out of the widow as the Calais Engladine express drew close to the Gare du Nord.

  “The Basilica of Sacré Coeur,” Auguste replied, deducing the subject of the question from the direction of Ethelred’s eyes rather than his description. Built just after he had left Paris, its dominance on the hilltop of the small lively village of Montmartre had taken a little time to blend in to his own private vision of Paris, but Paris was a beautiful woman who could wear her new clothes with the same grace as she displayed the old.

  “Mr Entwhistle,” Ethelred declared fervently, sinking back into his seat, “is a splendid employer.”

  “Who else would send his servants first class?” agreed Stuart Tudor. “A most worthy gentleman.”

  Auguste’s views remained unspoken.

  Despite his lack of relish for what lay ahead, excitement seized him as they descended from the train, each clutching precious luggage containing his own tools of the trade. He and Ethelred clung to their own knives and notebooks; Stuart Tudor to his silver polishing cloth and corkscrew. The rest of their luggage had been registered through in advance, but no one, in Tudor’s view, entered unknown territory unarmed with the means to carry out one’s profession. (Or, rather, present profession.)

  Emerging from the railway station, Auguste sniffed an intangible quality in the air that spoke to him only of France. If he had stopped to analyse it, he could perhaps have identified the smells of mingled coffee, hot bread, tobacco smoke and perhaps a hint of bowls of steaming moules emanating from the many cafes clustered round and in the station, but he did not bother to do so. It was enough that it was familiar, that it spoke of his younger days, and that its message was: Paris.

  Even as two fiacres découverts transported them ever nearer to whatever fate might await him, Auguste enjoyed rumbling over the narrow pavé roadways often half obstructed by barrows and markets and Parisians, with their eyes only on food, spilling into the roadway after them. Watching the eagerness of the shoppers, he reflected how strange it was that for some years French chefs had been bemoaning the fact that society no longer appreciated its own cuisine because its life had become so busy that proper meals taken in relaxation, comfort and respect for the estomac were no longer possible.

  His reception dinner, Auguste vowed, would be a different matter. All fifty guests would remember the Menu d’Unité for ever. Not, it belatedly occurred to him to hope, because the chef was murdered as soon as the last entremet had been placed on the table. He firmly put this unpleasant thought from his mind, for he had resolved to get through this ordeal by assuring himself that he was safe provided he remained under Gregorin’s or rather Entwhistle’s roof. He was, it was true, not sure that it would be Gregorin and not whoever the true Thomas Entwhistle might be, at the Place Vendome, but he was so near to certainty that he decided he must proceed on that assumption. Expeditions out would only be undertaken with the greatest precautions.

  His Majesty, Auguste had been relieved to hear both from Eleonore and from Gregorin before he left for Paris, would be staying at the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome, and not with Gregorin. Eleonore’s mocking glance had dared him to voice his instant thought that this was a great deal handier for a very private visit than staying in the house where the very public reception was to take place.

  “I am looking forward so much to Mr Entwhistle’s reception, naturellement.” Eleonore’s eyes had gleamed when he said goodbye to her at Farthing Court. “And even more to the weekend before it. I have promised to show His Majesty Paris.”

  “I think you’ll find he knows it,” Auguste had pointed out sourly.

  “But not my Paris. That will be an entirely new experience for him,” she retorted demurely.

  “Are you not concerned about your husband?” Even in France, husbands did not stay away indefinitely.

  “He’s in Russia now.” Eleonore looked surprised. “As you know, France is anxious that we, and not President Roosevelt, should be the brokers of peace between Russia and Japan. Moreover,” she laughed, moving closer, “where is your wife, Auguste?”

  Where indeed? At the time of that conversation she had been in Paris; now he had with some difficulty persuaded her to participate in the British Eliminating Trials for the Gordon Bennett Cup in the Isle of Man, which would take place a week after the reception, and which would, he assured her, necessitate hard practice in England. The lure of the track had proved greater than her suspicion of his motives. He had decided that the name Gregorin should not pass his lips, in case she insisted on accompanying him. He did not want Tatiana in Paris if he were to confront Gregorin, although Egbert had suggested that since Gregorin was her uncle she should put Auguste’s theory to the test. He would not do so, and besides, he was still convinced he was right. The aura that hung around Entwhistle every time he met him still shouted Gregorin.

  As the fiacre rattled down the rue de la Paix, he could see the classic perfection of the Place Vendome before him. On the right the luxurious hotels, the Ritz, the Bristol and the Vendome. In between them or on the left would be Entwhistle’s house, or hôtel, as the Parisians referred to these grand homes. There were fewer of them now that so many people were moving into apartments for convenience. Entwhistle must indeed be a rich man. Did Egbert not even think it was strange that no one seemed to know where he had come from, or how he had acquired this wealth? When he had asked Egbert, the answer had merely come back from the Sûreté that he had come from India. That apparently explained all — except to Auguste.

  In his preoccupation he handed over too much money to the cocher, and demanded change from his two hundred centimes. A heated discussion ensued to Ethelred’s lively interest. Auguste won and went his way triumphantly to see how Stuart Tudor was faring in the other fiacre. Mr Tudor was having no problems at all. His paragon, Mr Entwhistle, had both told him and provided him with the correct fare.

  Stepping inside Hotel Entwhistle to be surrounded by a bevy of impassive liveried servants was not to be compared with the comfortable smell of ancient wood and leather emanating from Farthing Court. Perhaps it was the
high rooms and the white paint everywhere, from moulded ceilings to carved doors, relieved only by touches of gold, that gave it a remoteness that was not reassuring for one come to stay under the same roof as his would-be murderer. The house spoke of money but little atmosphere. Auguste was just contemplating the reason for this when Thomas Entwhistle suddenly appeared from one of the salons leading off the foyer. Or was it once more Gregorin? Auguste’s heart lurched uncomfortably, but he beamed a welcome. The beam’s warmth did not penetrate the barrier of cold that enveloped the man who was undoubtedly Gregorin.

  “My dear Mr Didier, welcome to Paris. Perkins, Tudor,” he nodded. “My resident staff here are greatly looking forward to your visit.”

  Probably with carving knives in hand, was Auguste’s instant thought. Surely there could not be a second Ethelred Perkins in the world?

  “Naturally, Mr Didier, your room will be on the guest floor.”

  Why? What had Gregorin in mind? Auguste was instantly suspicious, but as it might suit him to be on both sides of the Great Door between upper and lower houses, his dry lips managed to murmur thanks.

  The semi-basement kitchen area was as impressive as the Farthing Court kitchen, though in different style. Where black lead ruled at Farthing Court, gas ovens gleamed here, and marble tops replaced English oak. In one other respect also it differed. Instead of an array of aspiring Ethelred Perkinses, there was a bevy of kitchenmaids, even the underchef was female. Even more to his astonishment the chef was a woman. In the closed world of French cuisine, how was this tolerated?

  “Enchantée, Monsieur Didier.” Madame Thérèse Lépine proved to be considerably older than Ethelred, but somewhat after the same style; thin, eagle-eyed and with the same air of general importance.

  “I have heard much of you from Madame Pryde,” she continued. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Didier.”

  Emma? Auguste warmed to Madame Lépine immediately. He had never been able to convince Tatiana of the essential charm of Emma Pryde, unlike some of his other amies. Dear Maisie was a friend to them both, as was Natalia Kallinkova, but at the name of Mrs Pryde, or even of Gwynne’s Hotel in St James, which she owned and ran in her idiosyncratic way, a distinctly frosty Russian look came over Tatiana’s usually amiable face. Auguste was forced to admit that Emma did not put herself out to endear herself to ladies, since gentlemen were more in her line, and it said much for Madame Lépine if she were part of Emma’s coterie.