by Amy Myers
“Would you do me the honour, Louisa, of sitting with us at the reception?”
Louisa appeared overcome with surprise and gratitude. “Oh, I would.”
*
“Generous fellow, Entwhistle,” Harvey remarked gloomily. He too was in the Louvre, only not with the lady of his choice. Gertrude had said it wouldn’t be proper and had disappeared with Bluebell. Belinda Montfoy, on the other hand, seemed eager to come out even though she was still in deepest mourning. He took it she wanted a stroll in the Tuileries, but she, it appeared, had ideas of her own.
“Yes,” Belinda agreed without enthusiasm. When she explained that she would be unable to appear at the dinner on Tuesday, although like Gertrude she would join in the prior reception for Mr Smith, the American envoy, Thomas had commiserated with her so sweetly that she had believed their old relations were quite restored. However, when she had asked him to accompany her to the Musée des Antiquities Egyptiennes, he had refused almost abruptly, and she was forced to fall back on this odd American who didn’t know a sarcophagus from a sarsen stone.
Harvey stared gloomily at a bas-relief of Nekhtharheb of the XXXth dynasty, and wondered why Belinda thought it so entrancing.
“And now,” she declared with a deep sigh of regret at having to leave, “we must find the Queen Karomana. And the bronze collection is said to be very fine.”
Harvey tried his best since he knew Europeans always seemed more enthusiastic about bits of old statues than newly carved ones. “Amenmes and his wife Tepit,” he read on the label. “A happy marriage,” was all he could find to comment on this representation of connubial bliss. It did nothing to lessen his depression.
“What a pity our host is not married.” She seized the opportunity to voice what was on her mind. “You don’t think there’s anything strange about Mr Entwhistle, do you?”
“How do you mean?” Harvey replied guardedly, having the firm conviction that many unmarried Englishmen were distinctly strange, but unaware of whether Belinda would know about the obvious conclusion.
“He seems different.”
“Well, I guess some men prefer men to women. More fools they,” Harvey declared heartily, though he was beginning to think it might be a lot simpler.
Belinda stared at him deflatingly. “I don’t mean homosexual.”
Harvey was shocked at such outspokenness, for he had taken Belinda to be the epitome of an English lady.
“When I first met him in Paris and Arthur sold him Farthing Court,” Belinda continued obliviously, “he was most friendly, but now in England he seems polite but distant. Does he appear so to you?”
Harvey pondered this. “I guess I wouldn’t like to have been in Arthur’s shoes if I’d been tied to that pole and Entwhistle came by with a grudge against me.”
“That’s what I feel too. You don’t think he has any ulterior motive for inviting us all to this reception, do you?”
“What kind of motive?” Harvey stopped in front of a picture of some dame smiling.
“I don’t know. But it was remarkably generous of him to loan the Court to Arthur for the wedding and pay for the village to — ” She broke off very quickly.
“Pay the village to do what?”
“Buy new bells for the church,” she finished lamely.
*
“What’s up, Bluebell?” Gertrude asked briskly. “I thought you were keen on seeing these tapestries?”
Bluebell was. The calm lady in the Cluny Museum’s treasured mediaeval tapestries of the Lady and the Unicorn somehow reminded her of Gertrude. “I guess I’m still worried about Bessie,” she said reluctantly. “I like her.”
“Even though she killed Arthur?” Gertrude showed her annoyance. The matter was over and done with until the trial.
“I don’t think she did.” It was more of a mutter than a definite assertion.
“Why?” And when her sister did not answer, “Bluebell, tell me.”
“I just wish I knew who that man was I saw coming through the trees.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Gertrude said firmly. “It’s over. Do you hear me?”
“Yes. Gertrude. Did you go down to the maypole?”
“Of course not.” Her sister’s anger showed momentarily before she controlled herself.
“If only I’d waited a few minutes I might have saved Bessie.”
“But you might make it worse for someone else.”
The unicorn gazed out peacefully from his centuries-old red tapestry home. He didn’t have problems like this.
“Like Harvey?” she wanted to ask, but instead it came out as, “Like Richard?”
*
Twelve hours to go. At six thirty this Tuesday evening Cousin Bertie would be sitting down to a dinner which might in some way represent the culmination of Gregorin’s current mission, and that mission was to discredit Britain. Auguste tried to put out of his mind the still possible thesis that Gregorin’s mission was to rid himself of the chef, not the guests. Already the last deliveries were beginning to arrive, carp, écrevisses, prawns for the bisque, turbot, salsify, snipe … Suddenly he felt the old excitement as one by one ingredients obediently presented themselves. His Menu d’Unité was all beginning to come together to form one glorious whole. Yet it could be ruined if Gregorin did indeed have political plans for the reception. Think, Richard Waites had said. Think about Eleonore, as well as Gregorin. He went over carefully, as best he could, each conversation he had had with her, every impression he had in watching her with other people. Lovingly he smelled the white truffles for the garnish. Perhaps, as so often, he would find the answer to the evening’s problems by his work in the kitchen today, for there were many similarities between detection and the creation of a perfect menu. It might help if he added another blancmange to the menu. There was certainty in a blancmange. It would remain a blancmange and not suddenly transform itself into a jelly. It seemed a good starting point for the day.
*
Ten thirty. Eight hours to go. The heat was rising from the ovens; poulardes were being stuffed ready for the grand dish poularde Edward VII, canetons were vigorously glazed, jellied and garnished, prawn after prawn surrendered its shell to the kitchenmaid’s practised hands.
“Shall I start on the crème comtesse or the pommes de terre duchesse, Mr Didier?”
As he was about to answer the kitchenmaid’s question with “The crème comtesse, if you please,” he had a sudden memory of that embarrassing night when he had foiled His Majesty’s plans, to the great benefit of the duchess, and a long unanswered question, apparently so insignificant, had come to mind: who was it who stole Louisa’s hats?
He gathered up the bundles of asparagus for the crème. “Yes, purée this now.” He would start with the comtesse and examine every little piece of this asparagus to check it was unflawed.
*
Twelve o’clock. Eleonore had been exonerated from the matter of the hats. Eleonore herself had taken breakfast and then coffee with the duchess. She had departed from the duchess’s rooms to change for the wedding, and the duchess’s maid had this morning informed him that the hats were still present then, and that she had been told by Eleonore’s maid (interrogated at Louisa’s insistence) that Eleonore had not left the room again. With the time available and the intricacies of ladies’ formal dress, there was no reason to doubt her. Moreover, Eleonore’s lady’s maid had escorted Louisa’s maid all round Eleonore’s room to prove her mistress’s innocence. The duchess’s maid had only left the room for a few minutes to answer a summons from Mrs Honey. The crème comtesse was innocent in respect of hats.
What, Auguste asked himself, had been the result of that fiasco?
Eleonore and not Louisa had been escorted to the wedding by His Majesty. It had restored their good relations. But that had nothing to do with politics or Gregorin, had it?
Or both? Richard Waites had asked. Or both.
Ignoring the kitchenmaid’s request to check the pommes de terre duchesse,
Auguste rushed to the grand dining room where Tudor and his French counterpart were busily polishing silver and placing plates on the two already splendidly decorated long tables and a third high table. Red, white and blue flowers to honour the three flags were woven on hooped arches over the tables, and in defiance of any French fairies that might be lurking in the Place Vendome, greenery was clustered at the bottom of each arch. On the tables Sevres china gleamed and crystal shone. The menu cards, each supported on their miniature Statues of Liberty carved in ivory, were already in position. What had he come to look at? What did he hope to find? Tudor did his best to prevent Auguste looking at anything at all, but before he physically evicted him from the room, Auguste had seen the high table — which had ten place settings.
Mr Entwhistle, as host, was at one end of the table, with the President’s wife on his left and Louisa on his right; at the other end, with the French president on her left and His Majesty on the right, was the place card for the Comtesse Eleonore.
Tudor, following at his heels, explained. “In the enforced absence of both Lady Montfoy and Miss Montfoy, the comtesse is kindly acting as hostess. Now, Mr Didier, if you would leave us to our work — ”
Hostess? There was nothing wrong with this; if she were the formal hostess, the president would obviously be on her left and the king would naturally as the highest ranking personage present be on her right. And yet …
*
Three o’clock. Preparation of the garnishes and beginning of the délices à la Russe. All in due order, one by one. Due order! Of course! Now he knew what had been troubling him. The guest of honour, the American envoy, should have been on Eleonore’s left. And why was Eleonore hostess when she hardly knew Entwhistle, let alone Gregorin? Why not, on the other hand? He indecisively hesitated between truffe and champignon to garnish the volaille. She was French, she knew His Majesty … He had just decided to have another look at the table, Tudor or no Tudor, when fate in the form of a summons to His Majesty at the Hôtel Bristol intervened.
Fuming, he obeyed. As if there were not enough to think about. This was probably to check Poularde Derby was on the menu. It was not. It was an irate monarch.
“I hear you’ve been interesting yourself in the placing arrangements for this evening, Didier.”
“Yes, sir.” How did he know? Had Tudor bothered to tell Gregorin? If so, why? There was only one answer. It affected Gregorin’s plans. “And I am worried — ”
“Not still on about Russian spies are you?”
“Yes, sir. Furthermore the comtesse is Mr Entwhistle’s hostess. Or, as his real name is, Pyotr Gregorin of the Okhrana. And she is sitting between you and the President of France.” He’d gone wrong somewhere, he realised.
His Majesty turned an interesting hue between red and purple. “Look, Didier, there’s an alliance between France and Britain. Just what harm can the Comtesse Eleonore’s friendship do to that? And just what do you think my private life has to do with you? The press understand the difference between private and public, why don’t you?”
“But tonight will be a public occasion.”
“Certainly. Eleonore is my public hostess.”
“And your very public — er — companion, sir, this weekend. There is talk … ”
He thought His Majesty was going to explode like a pressure cooker, but to his relief the temperature moderated just in time. His Majesty never forgot his public face, he merely laid it aside from time to time. “Very well. I’ll tell Entwhistle, not Gregorin, mind, that I want Mrs Smith, the US envoy’s wife at the head of the table, etiquette or no etiquette. That do?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, Didier. Just thank your lucky stars I don’t kick you out of my sight for ever.”
“I do, sir.”
“Moreover,” the King rumbled as an afterthought, “don’t think I don’t realise your interest in all this. Damned attractive woman, Eleonore. One word to Her Majesty and quite a few reach Tatiana. That clear?”
“Quite clear, sir.”
*
Six o’clock. He should be feeling overjoyed. He did not. The poulardes were about to go into the ovens, the soups to be gently reheated. The footmen were even now collecting the trays of délices à la Russe for the reception before the dinner. Bottles of champagne were being transported in ice up to the serving side rooms. Since even Gregorin would not dare defy the king’s wishes, there was surely nothing to worry about. Somehow Auguste could not convince himself. If Eleonore was part of Gregorin’s plan, it would mean that she was far from being the delightful lady he had thought her. He had no proof at all that she was anything other than she appeared. So why did he feel as though the soufflés were all about to sink beyond salvation?
“Tarte oh pomme’s ready,” Ethelred cried. His mastery of French left much to be desired.
“Tarte à l’oignon?” Auguste was miles away.
“Haven’t done one of them, Mr Didier. Not on the menu.”
Auguste pulled himself together. What had he said? Tarte à l’oignon. How ridiculous. As though he would have put that Alsatian speciality on his menu this evening of all evenings. Alsatian … Think over every conversation with Eleonore: bergamottes, quetsches, both from that area, that husky voice, the French almost too beautifully spoken. Could it be that Eleonore was not from Normandy but from Alsace-Lorraine, once French and now German? Even so, she was married to a French diplomat now, he told himself. Then he remembered, sickeningly, they only had her word for that. Why hadn’t Richard Waites come to tell him about his enquiries through the Embassy? If by any chance he was right, and even if tarte à l’oignon were not on Gregorin’s menu tonight Eleonore undoubtedly was. She was and always had been the main course in his plans.
He rushed into the main house, only belatedly remembering to remove his hat and apron lest the Sûreté who were already here in full force to protect the guests, arrest him on suspicion. They would be looking for gunmen, or bombs, not for Gregorin’s more insidious methods of assassination. Auguste found Richard Waites in the delicate process of tying his own tie, and poured out his fears, appalled that ties appeared to have taken precedence over Gregorin.
“The Embassy have telephoned London,” Richard explained, somewhat annoyed at the interruption. “They haven’t come up with anything new on Gregorin or Eleonore.”
“It’s Paris we need to ask if I’m right,” Auguste said, explaining his reasons as rapidly as he could.
The tie promptly lost its precedence.
*
A quarter to seven. Auguste fidgeted, unable to settle, aware that even now the reception was under way and he had heard nothing yet from Richard Waites, who had disappeared once more to the Embassy.
“How is the reception?” he asked Tudor anxiously as he rushed through the door to collect more délices.
“Not too well.” He seemed almost pleased. “The French and the Americans are standing on one side of the room, and the British, Russians and Germans on the other.”
Why should that be? Auguste worried. Or was he imagining things, and such a social pattern was merely coincidence.
Coincidence? No such thing where Gregorin was concerned. He could wait no longer for Richard. He must check the place cards to ensure Gregorin had had them changed. The Sûreté detectives would throw him out if he went in in chef’s garb. Should he ask Tudor to do it? No, everything and everyone to do with Entwhistle must be suspect at this late stage. He rushed to the footmen’s dressing room, praying that as in England a spare costume would be hanging there. There was, and ten minutes later, a somewhat flustered footman in full livery and imperfectly powdered wig marched confidently into the dining room, bearing the only thing he could find to explain his presence.
“His Majesty’s horseradish,” Auguste announced to the assembled panoply of footmen and detectives, then advanced to the table to place the unlovely root on it. He had been right. According to the place settings, His Majesty was seated opposite Mo
nsieur Delcassé, the French foreign minister and bête noire of the Kaiser, and between the two was still the place card for the probably German Eleonore, with whom the king had all too publicly spent the preceding three days. The entente would be cordiale no longer unless he acted immediately.
*
Seven thirty. The doors were flung open and a third footman attached himself to the two gentlemen who stood to attention to usher the guests in. He tried to make himself conspicuous. First came a smiling Pyotr Gregorin, bearing on his arm the president’s wife, and behind him the other guests in order of precedence. Precedence broke down, for at the end of the procession, Eleonore, bewitchingly glowing in white satin, was on the arm of His Britannic Majesty. Amongst the guests, joining the procession belatedly, was a white-faced Richard Waites, whose attention to his initial astonishment Auguste managed to attract, drawing him aside.
“I’m sorry, Didier,” Richard said immediately. “You were right, but we can do nothing now.”
“It’s done, sir.” Auguste was aware of the Sûreté detective’s suspicious eye upon him, and quickly whispered instructions to Richard.
Working at a speed unusual to the Foreign Office, Richard immediately approached one of the guests, firmly escorting her to her new position, just as the rest of the procession arrived in the dining room.
Auguste bowed deeply to His Majesty, as Richard with practised ease drew Eleonore aside to allow His Majesty to take his place next to his new dining partner.
His Majesty Edward VII looked round in satisfaction. He’d told Entwhistle in a few well-chosen words that Eleonore was on no account to be seated near him, and she wasn’t. Then the satisfaction vanished. He was, as he had expected, facing the President of France, but between them at the head of the table was the over-familiar face of Louisa, Duchess of Wessex. Looking around briefly, apoplectic with rage before he could arrange his features into a public expression of agreeable cheer, he saw another familiar face. It was blasted cousin-by-marriage Didier dressed up as a footman.
